From Here to Heaven
by Wolf of the Midnight Sun
Summary: When Hunter Leseveque found a beaten young kid named Chris Irvine with his best friend Shawn Micheals, he never really believed in anything. When Shawn refuses to let the kid handle himself, Hunter if forced to realize that the kid will change his life.
1. Hunter: The Beginning

A/N: This is my first fic, I'd appreciate it if you'd review. This is rated for strong language and some violence. I've screwed around with the timeline here too, as you can see, but remember, it's just fiction.  
  
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From Here to Heaven  
  
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I guess the day my life changed was the day Shawn and I were walking down the street across from a line of clubs in Salem. It was late, so late it was almost dawn, and Shawn was as drunk as pig. I guess that was the day my life changed. For the better, or for the worst, I wouldn't know. But it changed.  
  
"So, Hunter," Shawn said, slinging an arm over my shoulder. I was sober, at least more than him. He was a damn fool for getting as drunk as he had, that was for sure. "So, Hunter, fucked anybody lately?"  
  
"Shawn, shut up. You're drunk, we need to get home, and it's late. I have to work this morning, unlike some people."  
  
"Yeah, who would that be? Your lover-fucker?" He laughed, a high, barking sound.  
  
"Shawn, shut your trap." Sighing, we reached the car parked on the side of the road. Why I had let Shawn talk me into a night on the town would forever be my mystery. It had been a long day, a day of hard training at Walter's gym in his ring- if you could call the damn contraption of rubber and boards a ring. Shawn had convinced me we needed a time out. A very good time in the town.  
  
Of course, I'd be paying for that night the rest of my life. Either in gold or in pennies.  
  
"GET AWAY FROM ME!"  
  
My head snapped up. I looked up, across from Shawn's scraggly blondish hair across the street. The lamps illuminated an alley. I could see dark forms fighting one lone figure, a short figure, which stood stocky and weak. The people rushing on the sidewalk ignored them. But I could see the long figure was being beaten badly and senseless by his assailants, all laughing drunkenly.  
  
"Stop it! Get away!"  
  
It was the voice of a kid. Oh well. Kids were bad these days. Kids were idiots who put themselves in stupid positions. This kid probably deserved this beating. I continued with Shawn towards the car.  
  
But Shawn's head shot up and he gazed across the alley with his glazed eyes. "Hunter, they're beating up a kid."  
  
"He's probably a drug dealer," I snapped.  
  
"Hunter, he's a kid."  
  
"Shawn, you're drunk as hell. Come on; let's just get the fuck out of here."  
  
He suddenly and violently threw his arm from me and started to race across the street. He moved sluggishly, but he moved. By the time I realized what he was doing, he was halfway across the road. Roaring, I charged after him. Count on Shawn to be like this. The guy wore his heart on his sleeve, and he was an ass at it.  
  
"Get away from me!" A loud cry of pain followed the young voice.  
  
"HELP ME, HUNTER!"  
  
Shawn slashed down the nearest attacker swiftly. There were cries of disbelief from the others as they turned their attacks from the kid to Shawn. If I hadn't arrived in the next instant, they would have torn Shawn to shreds. I always save that guy's ass.  
  
I took down two of the other attackers, roaring loudly at them, partly in anger at Shawn. By the time we finished with them, they were running down the alley, yelping. I was surprised no one had stopped to watch on the street, but no one had. Half the people in this world are morons.  
  
"Hey, kid, are you okay?" Shawn helped the kid to his feet, but as soon as he got there, the kid collapsed.  
  
"Get away!" he roared, his eyes closed in pain. He had long blonde hair, tangled, and streaked with grime and blood. He wore old clothes, and there were bruises surrounding his body. He was on the ground, curled up, and then his blue eyes opened again, clear as day. "Go away!"  
  
"Kid, we just saved your fucking life, I'd expect some gratitude," I snarled.  
  
His expression softened. "Thanks, then. Fine job, but get away. I can take care of myself."  
  
"Nice fucking job," I snorted.  
  
"Hunter!" Shawn said sharply. "Kid, let's get you to a doctor."  
  
"No, I'm fine."  
  
"Where are you hurt?"  
  
"Go away!" the kid protested hotly.  
  
"Let's leave him, Shawn," I said, already turning. "He's acting like a fool."  
  
"He's a kid, Hunter, come on, let's get him!"  
  
"Excuse me, last time I checked, this was my life. Get the fuck out."  
  
Ooh, this kid deserved to be beaten with a stick. "You heard the prick, let's go."  
  
"No," Shawn said firmly.  
  
"I thought you were drunk," I accused.  
  
"I like making you think that. It gives me power."  
  
"Excuse me, but I have an appointment," the kid interrupted rudely. "Can I go now?"  
  
"No, you're coming with us until we see you're cleaned up," Shawn said, shaking his head, and grabbed the kid's arm. "How old are you?"  
  
"Fifteen, and will you please let me go?"  
  
"What's your name?"  
  
"What's yours?" Shawn quizzed.  
  
I guess I should say his name, because his name was the only thing I knew him by then. He changed me later, changed me in ways Shawn doesn't even know. He deserves respect. He deserves everything I have to give.  
  
He looked up at us with his fierce blue eyes, and he said, fiercely, "My name's Chris Irvine." 


	2. Hunter: To the Last

Thanks to those who reviewed, and for the record, I own nothing.

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From Here to Heaven

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Part 2: Hunter

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"Well, Mr. Irvine," Shawn said in a way that left no room for argument.  "You're coming with us."

The kid's eyes flared in anger and his breathing grew pitched.  "Listen, okay, I'm really thankful for you helping me and all.  It was really, really kind of you.  But now you can just leave me alone.  I'm really fine by myself."

I was getting impatient and exasperated.  Despite my dislike of the kid, I could see he had a point.  It really wasn't any of our business.  We had been good Samaritans, saved a kid's life, but now Shawn practically wanted to adopt him.  Shawn was a good-hearted man, a man who loved God, yet he was taking things too far now.

"You know, he's right, Shawn," I said.  "It's really none of our business."

"It's our duty to help the less fortunate," Shawn said, smiling up easily at me, as if I were a lost child.  

"I'm very fortunate," Chris snarled.  "Listen, mister, just leave.  I really appreciate it, but you and I do not understand each other.  Listen to your friend, sir.  Please, just GO!"

I was mad now.  "Shawn, leave him alone.  Let's go."

"No," Shawn objected, still with that idiotic grin stretching his face.  "He's hurt."

"Shawn, this is not a convention to save the children," I said hotly.  "He's fine."

"So, Chris, where are you hurt?"  

The kid looked up at him with eyes wide as quarters.  "Please-"

"I can see we do not understand each other," Shawn sighed and stood up from his kneeling position.  "I'm going to bring the car around, Hunter.  Persuade our little friend to stay here, would you?"

"Shawn!" I said furiously as he turned on his heel and headed across the street.  I almost turned and ran after him, leaving the kid to the shadows.  I took one step forward, but suddenly my steps seemed burdened.  I hesitated, and turned back toward the injured kid, who was struggling to get to his feet.  "I'd say you need to run, kid, before he gets back.  He's really strong."

"He's an ass," he shot.

"I'd watch my mouth if I were you," I replied heatedly, feeling a zap of anger.  I felt alright calling Shawn names, but not this low-life hoodlum kid.  "He's a better man than you'll probably ever be."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence."  His voice was pained and he was panting.  He was on his knees in a jockeyed position, trying to get to his feet.  I watched him shuffle forward toward the wall on the ground in the muck and grime, swearing softly until he reached the brick wall that made the alley.

"Let me help you."  Without realizing what I was doing, I rushed to him, ignoring completely my anger.  This kid was hurt badly.  "Kid, let me help."

"I don't need you help," he huffed, grasping the brick wall and in a sudden jerk, pulled himself to his feet.  He left loose a soft yelp of pain and favored his left leg.  Peering closely in the dim lights, I could see the splotchy bruises on his face, one eye completely circled in black and purple.  He slouched, so I could guess that he had some damage to his ribs as well.  He favored his left leg and crooked his right arm.  He wore a loose jacket that was torn and dirty, worn and ragged jeans covering his legs.  His blonde hair dirty, muddy, and looked like a halo around his painfully thin body.  

"Kid, you need help."  I touched his shoulder and he yanked away, hissing in pain.  "You know, I hate kids like you.  Kids who think their all that and run drugs to get what they want, instead of making an honest living."

"I do not run drugs!"  He glared at me in the dim light.  

"The first stage is denial."

"Don't give me the stages crap, I've heard enough of it in my life," he growled.  "It's what I always hear.  I've always got the problem, you know, nobody else does, only me."

"Well, running drugs is a problem, you see."  I smiled at him cockily.  I didn't hate kids in general; I disliked intensely the ones who broke the law.  Laws were not made to be broken.

"I'm saying it again, I do not run drugs."  He said it in a savage way.  "Stop saying that!"

I heard the whinny of tires and turned around.  Shawn parked the car and stepped from the driver's seat, letting the engine run.  

"Well," he said as he reached the darkness.  "Let's go."

"Shawn-"

"No, I already said-"

He ignored both our pleas and in a swift instant, grabbed the kid around the middle and hefted him up over his shoulder.  Chris yelped in pain and screamed obscenity.  I watched in disbelief as Shawn waded straight through the sea of traffic streaming down the sidewalk, calmly open the door and dump the kid inside, and race around to lock the doors from the driver's seat, all the while Chris screaming in pain and in anger. 

"Hunter, get in the car," Shawn yelled and slammed his door shut.  In the dimness, I could see the kid struggling and kicking in the back, clawing at the window, desperately trying to escape.  I stared in disbelief for a few more moments, at the sight that Shawn had actually the nerve to pick an unknown kid up and throw him in the back of the car.  Then again, with Shawn, maybe I shouldn't have been.

Despite my anger and frustration with Shawn, I opened the passenger door and got in, locking it shut.  Chris howled in the backseat, but as he was too injured to do more than complain, he just roared obsenties and death threats at us.  His knowledge of vocabulary surprised me.  He knew the usual lingo of cursing, but in between the curses, he was using actual grammar and some words people my own age had trouble saying.  So this was a kid who ran drugs, but somewhere in between the mob matters, he had gotten himself educated.  

Shawn pulled the car into the freeway, ignoring the howling  kid in the back, as if he didn't exist.  The ability of the human mind to ignore bizarre things amazes me.  Just as it had happened as the gang had attacked the kid.  It was utterly bizarre.

"Where's the nearest hospital, Hunter?" Shawn asked.

"Not the hospital!" moaned Chris.  "Please, not the hospital!  They'll take me back!"

For a moment, the car in Shawn's control wavered and I pitched around the seat, remembering that I hadn't strapped on the belt by my side.

"Who'll take you back?" Shawn asked finally.  Something rose inside me, but I couldn't name it.  There was a resolution, a fine edged background for this kid rising in my mind and instantly a wave of pity rushed over me.  I looked at the kid in the mirror and saw wild panic in his blue eyes.

He laughed a scream.  "If I tell you, you will take me there!"

"Trust us, there's nothing left to lose anyway," I said.

He seemed to contemplate my words, as if I had said something profound.  Maybe I had.  But he looked in the mirror at us with his big blue eyes and then closed them, as if in very hard decision.  For a moment, his face was utterly emotionless, and then turned back into the grimace of pain that seemed forever etched on it.  His eyes opened and he said, after a loud moan of pain, "You're right.  I've got nothing left to lose."

"That's the spirit," Shawn said enthusiastically.  That's right, Shawn, scare the kid.  The pity washing over me turned into a river.

Chris turned his eyes upon the mirror again for a moment, and then he looked out the window.  He spoke as if speaking about a different life form.  "Alright, you already know my name.  I think it's my real name."  He paused, uncertain.  "It's not too uncommon about what's happened with me, I can tell you that.  Practically all the people I meet know some kids like me."  He paused uncertainly again, as if whatever he was going to say was about to determine whether he went to the hospital or not.  

"I guess you can say I've lived a messed-up life.  My mother abandoned me when I was five, I think.  Five or six, I can't exactly remember.  It was a long time ago.  Anyways, I became a warden of the country- that's Canada.  I lived in Canada.  I was born in Canada and when I can, I'll go back and die in Canada."  He paused there, and for a moment his eyes slipped back to the mirror, and he seemed to challenge both Shawn and I.  We said nothing; Shawn put on his blinker and pulled into the slower right lane.  Chris's eyes turned away from the mirror in an instant.  He never skipped a beat, as if he had never said anything.  "Well, okay, in Canada it's kind of different.  I was shuffled around in foster homes.  Most of them were okay- most of them were really okay.  I was clothed and fed at least; nobody was hurting me."  This time he paused again, and just out of the corner of the mirror, I could see his eyes closed, as if in pain.  Then he was up and talking again, speaking in the same emotionless tone.  "Then when I was ten, my foster parents died in a wreck.  The damn idiots-"

"Watch your mouth," Shawn said mildly.  He cursed avidly, but he had never been a fan of young people doing it.  I never really understood it; it may have had to do with his religion.

For a moment, the kid stopped in bewilderment and gazed in the mirror.  Shawn was watching the traffic, but I was looking in the mirror.  The confusion in the kid's eyes stopped me cold and made me smile, straight into the mirror.  After a moment, I realized what I had done and turned away quickly.  I didn't like this kid.  There was to be no smiling at him.

The kid coughed and continued in a passive tone, "They were killed in a wreck.  So after that, they sent me to another home.  It was a real bad one."  He continued in a dead voice, so dead Shawn looked up into the mirror in surprise.  After what the kid said, I expected any emotion.  "They had five other kids, so I was just another to the heap.  They hit us all.  They knocked three teeth out and blinded one of the kids before the authorities realized what had happened.  They took us all out of there real quick. I guess they were afraid we were going to sue them or something."  He choked a laugh.  "So they put me in another one, and it was the same situation.  This time the father- he was a drunk- put another kid in a hospital.  They took us out quick and put us other places.  It was like that for three years.  A string of bad homes didn't make me any more grateful for the system."  

"So you ran away?" Shawn guessed gently.

"Yes," Chris said.  "I ran away a year and half ago.  I've been living by myself ever since."

"So why are you all the way in Massachusetts?" I asked.

For a moment, he faltered, and he made a hesitant noise.  I think I should have known right then he was lying when he spoke again.  I had learned to read people.  In the mirror, I could see the hesitance in his crystal blue eyes, and the hushed tone to his usually broad voice.  I should have known he was lying.

"I hopped trains," he said, after the slight falter.  "I hopped trains and hitchhiked.  It was pretty easy, actually."

"Where do you think you were headed?" I asked him critically.

Again, he hesitated slightly.  "I'm heading as far away from Canada as I can.  I was thinking California, right near Mexico.  But I mean, if you're hopping trains and heading toward the US, why not take sidetracks and just cruise?  It's not like I'm going anywhere."  He raised his head and glared into the mirror.  Shawn and I both saw the look in his eyes.  "I mean, I wasn't, until now.  Now I'll just go back to Canada, you know, and I'll go straight back into the system."  

Shawn looked at me and uttered a single word: "No."


	3. Chris: There Is No Second Chance

Thanks to all my reviewers, you all are so awesome. In response to Jeff's Favourite Skittle's question, um, there's a story behind that. I do like Triple H, a lot, in fact. It's just his character right now is killing me. I really despise it. Back when I wrote this, I basically used the layout as I have it now. Hunter, in a manner of speaking, is more important than Shawn. On my list on my bio, I do say I like Shawn more, but only now, because of Hunter's character. I do respect them both equally. I hope I answered your question!  
  
A/N: Well, I haven't said much of the time frame, but I guess I'll do it now. It's set back in the day, I've screwed with time, and Hunter and Shawn are still not in the WWE. I know Chris, Hunter, and Shawn are closer in age, but like I said, I've screwed around with time.  
  
Disclaimer: Just in case you do not know, I do not own Chris Irvine, Paul Leseveque, Shawn Hickenbottom, or Joanie Lauer. I own none of these people, the WWE does or they do.  
  
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From Here to Heaven  
  
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Part 3: Chris- There Is No Second Chance  
  
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For a moment, I didn't fully comprehend what the man in the driver's seat had said. I was in too much pain. My knee was aching so fiercely I though I as going to pass out and every time I breathed, I felt a shudder pass long my ribs. The scrapes and the bruises weren't too much to worry about; it was my knee that threatened me the most. I felt slightly light- headed, but it wasn't hurting me too badly. All that mattered was my fucked up knee.  
  
So I didn't hear what the man that had been called Shawn said too clearly. It was only after the man called Hunter gave a little cry that I realized.  
  
He wasn't going to take me to the hospital.  
  
I felt glorious, sweet relief surge throughout my body, dispelling the pain for a few moments. If he wasn't going to take me the hospital, I was free.  
  
Relief had been the first emotion I had felt when these two men had chased off the drunken gang who had attacked me. I had been grateful; I would have been toast if they hadn't arrived. The gang had attacked me just because they had been drunk, and because of the fact, they hadn't hurt me badly. The scrapes and the bruises were the only new additions to my ribs and my knee, though they had greatly reinforced the halo of pain that surrounded them both. They hadn't been attacking me long when Shawn and Hunter had shown up, and for that I was eternally grateful.  
  
Then, of course, good Samaritans have to be good Samaritans. At least the man named Shawn had. I had taken a liking to him almost immediately. He was open, and seemed honest enough. He had a smile that fit rather easily on his long face, yet the smile was also rather tragic. His blue eyes showed no sign of malice or any dishonesty; he was good and kind and strong. Of course, he had tried my patience after I had refused to leave to the hospital with him. He had done it out of the kindness of his heart, and though I hated him for that, I respected him almost instantly.  
  
His friend Hunter was an entirely different story. I didn't like him. I didn't trust him. Surprisingly, even though Shawn had been the one who had forced me to leave with them, it was Hunter who I distrusted the most. The grooves in his forehead ran long and deep, giving him a forever mean, thoughtful appearance. His eyes were calculating, and he was a man who knew what he wanted in the world. He was a man who knew his place and thought he knew everyone else's; and that included me. He had already formed his judgment about me, and it was not good. No, I didn't trust him. My faith lay with his friend.  
  
Apparently I had been rewarded and my white lies hadn't been challenged. Shawn proclaimed in a louder voice: "No."  
  
"But Shawn-"Hunter protested.  
  
"NO!" I shouted, surprising myself. "No, he's right! He's absolutely right! Listen to him!"  
  
Shawn offered a small smile in the mirror and pulled off the freeway into a dark street.  
  
"What exactly do you propose we do?" Hunter asked, outraged.  
  
I tried to smile back at Shawn, but a sharp twist of my leg stopped any attempts and produced a yelp.  
  
"He's hurt, Shawn!" Hunter said furiously. "He's really hurt and he needs a hospital! We shouldn't get involved, Shawn, listen to me, we shouldn't get-"  
  
"Hunter, I respect your decision," Shawn said in his carrying way that overrode everything. "I respect you and you know that. But this isn't just some dog, Hunter- this is a kid."  
  
I felt touched my Shawn's speech. Somebody was caring.  
  
NO.  
  
Nobody cared. Nobody ever cared. He was listening to his conscience, and he would sleep easier at night once he deposited me somewhere. He'd go to bed and think, "wasn't it swell we helped that poor kid? Aren't I such a good person?" It would fuel his almost non-existent ego and he'd be happy. He didn't care. It was to help his own ease of mind. Nobody cared.  
  
"I think I can see that, Shawn," Hunter said slowly. "I can see that. But listen, if we tell them he was abused-"  
  
"I wasn't abused," I said hotly. I hated the word. I hated it with a vengeance. "They just hit me, okay? It wasn't bad, but I hated it." Words came to my lips and I said them, even though they were in the same category of me telling them I could fly. "I've been doing it for a year and a half, okay? I can take care of myself."  
  
"But maybe if we told them they'd listen-"  
  
"Nobody ever listens," I hissed. "They had proof of that every time they packed me away and yet I came back up the way I went in. Do you think they'll listen to you?"  
  
"We can try-"  
  
"Alright," Shawn interrupted loudly, parking the car along a deserted street next to a pockmarked and vacant park. Good, this was a perfect spot to spend the day in solitude. I could find a shady spot next to a trash can and park myself for the next few days until my knee felt reasonably better. Then I'd pick up and start the trek as far away from Massachusetts as I could. I'd have to be careful, because they'd be looking for me, but I'd most likely be able to pull it off.  
  
"Thanks for the help," I said shortly, already making preparations in my mind as I touched the door handle. Suddenly there was a loud click. For a moment, I didn't realize what it was. When I did, I furiously turned to Shawn. "Why'd you lock the doors? Let me out!"  
  
I was treated to a look of confusion on his face. "Whoever said I was going to let you go? I said I wasn't going to let you go to the hospital."  
  
It was my turn to be confused. "Then what are you going to do with me?"  
  
Hunter groaned loudly. "No, Shawn, don't say it, it's not our business, it's not our problem! You can't-"  
  
"You're not living alone anymore, Chris," Shawn said in a stern voice. "You're going to live with me."  
  
There was only shock for a minute or two. Then I laughed, though it burned my ribs to do so. "You're crazy, man. You're really fucking-"  
  
"Don't cuss," Shawn said automatically.  
  
I had humored him before, and I did it again. "You're crazy, man. Who do you think you are?"  
  
"I am the savior of your ass, that's who I am," Shawn said, his voice dead serious. "And you are a fifteen year old kid with no place else to go with a busted knee and running from a foster home. You're going to live with me."  
  
"You're crazy!" Hunter erupted and for the first time and probably one of the few times in my life, I agreed with him. "You're crazy! You don't have the money to raise the kid! Where do you get the authority to do any of this? Are you a fucking retard, man? You've got to be crazy!"  
  
Shawn watched us both with passive eyes, and then he turned to me. He spoke gently. "You're a kid, Chris. You're only a kid. You need a home. I'll fix your knee and I'll give you a home. I won't take you back to Canada or anything like that, so you won't need to worry. All I'm offering is a roof, a little grub, and that's all, but it's better that what you've been doing."  
  
"You have no idea what I've been doing!" I shouted furiously. "You have no idea! You have no right, no FUCKING right to come in and tell me what to do! Let me out of this fucking car, I'm leaving!"  
  
"When was the last time you ate?" Shawn asked.  
  
The question took me so by surprise I actually stopped moving. "Huh?"  
  
"When was the last time you ate?" Shawn said slowly.  
  
The dawn was streaking across the sky and as if in accordance to his words, my stomach roared. It had been days since my last scrap of food. I had stomached some puddle water, but I had not been able to salvage a piece of food I was sure had not been contaminated. I was practically starving, and only when Shawn mentioned it, did I realize the fact. But I couldn't tell him that. He was crazy and needed to be set straight. Telling him I was drop dead from lack of nutrients would not help.  
  
"I ate yesterday," I lied. "I found some food next to Sizzler across town." For a moment, I thought they were going to believe my lie.  
  
Then Hunter, in a slow, thoroughly confused voice, asked, "What's a Sizzler?"  
  
"It's a restaurant, Hunter, but they don't have any in Massachusetts," Shawn said, and guilt washed over me. "Our little friend is lying."  
  
Hunter's eyes went wide and angry. "I don't like liars, kid. Shawn would do good just to boot your ass across the street."  
  
"Talk sense into him, then," I said, quickly overstepping my lie. "I want this as little as you do."  
  
"So when was the last time you ate, Chris?" Shawn interrupted, as if I had just not spoken. "You look pretty thin and I'm pretty sure I could hear your stomach a minute ago."  
  
My stomach grumbled loudly and Shawn and Hunter looked at each other.  
  
"He's hungry," Hunter said, smiling a tight smile, as if he had just won a game. This was no game.  
  
"Just let me go, okay? I don't need you."  
  
"It's either me or the hospital, no choice." Shawn folded his arms against his chest and sat back against the seat, his eyes watching the mirror.  
  
"I don't want to live with you!" I felt anger and pain. "Just let me go, okay? It's none of your concern! All I am to you is some low-life kid you saved from a mob, okay? I'm a hurt cat you saved from a bad dog. I'm not yours, I'm a stray, now let me go!"  
  
Hunter, in the mirror, appeared taken aback by my little speech, but Shawn seemed nonplussed and he smiled gently in the mirror again. "All I'm asking is a chance, Chris. I won't make you go to school or anything; all I want you to have is some food and a roof. It's not much, but it's better than what you have. It's all I'm asking."  
  
"Thanks, but I'm not interested." I kicked at the door with my good leg, but it didn't budge. "Unlock the door, Shawn."  
  
"Would you like to go to the hospital, then?" Shawn watched me closely with his eyes.  
  
Unbelievable frustration welled inside my heart. "No, I don't want to go! Just let me alone! I swear, I'll call the cops and say you're drug junkies or something!"  
  
Hunter, to my utter surprise, cawed laughter. "That's a good one, kid. It's an anonymous tip to the public: watch out for two drug junkies. They avidly pick up homeless kids off the streets and offer them homes. Watch out. You surprise me, kid. You seem smart enough."  
  
"I am," I challenged, wondering where Hunter was aiming.  
  
For a moment, he didn't say anything, and then turned around in his seat to gaze upon me with his full face. "Shawn's offering you a home, kid. If it were me, and plus half the sane people in this world, I'd boot you out and back into your shitty life. But Shawn's been dropped on his head one too many times by an unfortunate idiot of a wrestler, so he's not sane. He's offering you a damn window, you ass. It ain't his problem, but now it is. So stop acting like the bastard kid you are and live up."  
  
If it had come from anybody else, I might have been surprised. But from Hunter, it sounded like the most bullshit thing I'd ever heard in my life; yet it worked.  
  
"So Hunter does care," Shawn mocked.  
  
"I hate smart ass kids who think they're God," Hunter replied tersely. "Don't think I'm helping you, Shawn. I've got my own hide to worry about."  
  
If it had come from anybody else but Hunter, I wouldn't have said yes.  
  
But he was different. He had shown me nothing but brutal honesty and had just reiterated that.  
  
For a few moments, I felt like a complete and utter jerk. I was dirt and a bad person. There was too much of a good thing and I was turning away from it.  
  
It wasn't the hospital, and it wasn't a foster home. If he hit me, I'd hightail it out. But looking at Shawn, it seemed colossally impossible that he was capable of inflicting damage upon another human being. But then again, so had everybody else . . .  
  
But it wasn't the hospital. It wasn't Canada, nor was it Mr. and Mrs. Strong who took their name literally and beat the shit out of every living thing their way. It wasn't hell; but if it turned out to be lightning from a blue sky, there would be no second chance. I would scram as fast as I could, and this time I wouldn't stop running until I reached the waters of the Pacific.  
  
I looked up in the mirror at Shawn and said, with as much resentment as I could muster, "You wouldn't force me?"  
  
Shawn's eyes lit up and that was kind of nice to see. Hunter looked as pissed off as ever; his little speech had worked and he hated it.  
  
"I wouldn't force you," Shawn said, struggling to keep the excitement from his voice.  
  
"You wouldn't make me do anything I didn't want to do? I could leave if I wanted to?"  
  
"All I want is a chance," he replied sincerely.  
  
I didn't want to say yes. I wanted to say with everything in me. I wanted to run.  
  
But Shawn's eyes were too blue, too big. Hunter was too mad, too resentful, too angry.  
  
And my leg was dying and it hurt to breathe and the awning hole in my stomach grew bigger by the second.  
  
"All right, then," I said. "Let's roll." 


	4. Chris: One Step Forward

Thanks to you all for being so patient. I hope I don't disappoint on this chapter __  
  
From Here To Heaven  
  
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Chapter Four  
  
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Chris: One Step Forward  
  
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"Shawn?" Hunter asked when the car came to rest in front of a decent looking apartment building. It was on the far side of town, only a few minutes from the nearest bright area. The walls were peeling slightly, and the whole thing gave the appearance of a place for low income families. The parking lot was full of dire, poor cars that looked as if they couldn't chug their way out of the warehouse. Shawn's car was one of the best in comparison. A few kids dressed in black sweaters with hoods over their faces hung out by a lamppost, probably smoking pot or the like. More kids strung out the parking lot, talking, laughing, probably smoking too. It wasn't the worst neighborhood I'd seen by far; but at the same time, it didn't look exactly like a place Beaver and his family would live.  
  
Shawn made an uncommitted noise to acknowledge to knowledge the question. I could see his eyes in the mirror as we passed the lamppost. He looked about ready to turn his head and speak to me, but at the last moment, he stopped himself. That was good, because I was never a huge fan of preaching.  
  
"Can I talk to you outside?" Hunter continued in a casual voice, but his eyes flicked nervously to the mirror and rested on my head for a moment. I ignored him.  
  
"Naw, Hunt, it's getting late-"  
  
He was incorrect. Light was painting the sky in brilliant streaks. He was crazy, but I decided not to mention it.  
  
"Shawn," Hunter said loudly.  
  
Sighing, Shawn turned around in his seat and spoke directly to me. "Stay here, Chris. We'll only be a second and then we'll figure out how to get you upstairs."  
  
"Great," I said shortly, speaking balefully. I would remain cool and short to them at all times; when I decided they were worthy of my trust, then I'd get serious.  
  
Hunter slammed out of the car, strode past it, crossed the sidewalk, and entered the grassy area that brimmed the apartments. Shawn joined him and they talked lividly, never stopping, the flow of words exchanged and mingled constantly. It was interesting to watch. Shawn watched Hunter talk animatedly, almost as if Shawn was somewhere far away.  
  
They argued and the sky turned a deeper shade of turquoise. The kids in the heavy black sweaters with hoods dispersed after a few moments, slapping hands and hollering to each other as they turned away and headed down alleys shrouded with the pre- dawn gloom. Most of the other kids on the sidewalk left too, but a few remained, talking and passing around a short white stick with a tan end. I wrinkled my nose at it.  
  
I had tired the ritual of smoking. I had tried the ritual of drinking, passing out, and waking up feeling like you had just been mowed over with a truck. I had tried both and both had turned into what I had imagined: the smoke and the beer had turned me into a replica of the foster parents I despised. That had been the real breaker for me. If I turned into those who had harmed me, I was no better than they were. And nothing could make me want to imitate their despicable ways.  
  
The light turned milky and splashed in hazy slants across my body. And still, Hunter and Shawn talked- or argued- in the overgrown grass. Doors opened in the apartments and men and women hurried out, some wearing suits to head into the business district, some wearing hardly anything to head toward the strip clubs, and some wearing casual clothes that suggested labor. They got in their cars with the splotched rust spots, in the cars whose tires looked shredded, in the cars that seemed about ready to break apart into pieces. The great low-class of society was unfolding before my eyes.  
  
And finally, as the cars coughed and sputtered and clambered away, Shawn came and opened my door.  
  
"Are you ready? My apartment is on the top floor, though. With your leg, it should be tough to get you up. I begged for the top apartments, because it's horrible to be on the bottoms because the top makes all the noise. I figure I'd just stay ahead of the pack."  
  
"Why are you telling me this?" I asked bluntly.  
  
Shawn didn't miss a beat and part of me hated him for it. "Well, kid, we have to get you up the stairs. There's no elevator. You wouldn't mind if me and Hunter carried you, would you?"  
  
"Actually, I'm not sure if Hunter could stand to touch me," I said sulkily in a low voice, eyeing the man standing on the lip of the sidewalk, glaring at Shawn and me. I ignored his heated gaze and instead peered up at Shawn.  
  
A smile ceased his face. "I'm sure Hunter could stand to touch you, he's still here on planet Earth. Don't be too hard on him. He's kind of afraid of what he doesn't like."  
  
"The great mystery of life," I said miserably. My leg was numb from not moving for so long, but I knew as soon as I moved it, pain would come fluttering from nowhere. I didn't want to move; I wanted to refuse it.  
  
"Ready?" Shawn asked and without waiting for an answer, motioned to Hunter. I saw Hunter grumble something, and then he resignedly trotted over. "I'll drag you out and probably just throw you over my shoulder. I'm sorry if I hurt you."  
  
I started to say something, but suddenly he swooped upon me and slipped his arms underneath mines. I yelped as he yanked hard, my knee banking badly against seat. He yanked again and I was into open air, hanging out, my feet resting on the seat while Shawn pushed me up. My leg hit the seat again. I cried out. Shawn's hands moved to my torso, hugged my stomach, and pulled me up. My legs fell from the car and hit the ground. I cried out again and frantically transferred all my weight to my good leg, the right one. I was standing now, leaning against the car door, Shawn grasping me around the middle. Hunter stood, watching us both serenely with quiet countenance.  
  
"Lift," Shawn grunted and suddenly lifted me straight up, twisted me with supernatural strength, and slung me over his shoulder. I was looking at the black and scratched pavement, my long blonde hair obstructing my vision. My legs dangled and my gimp one gave twinges of pain.  
  
"This is a good arrangement," Hunter said sulkily as Shawn began to walk, nudging the door closed. I gave a whimper of pain as my leg shoed foot banged against Shawn's ribs. It must have hurt him, too; I wasn't a lightweight, but he didn't say anything, just marched on without a word.  
  
"Give me your keys so I can open the apartment," Hunter said. Shawn made a quiet acknowledging sound and Hunter fished around in Shawn's front pocket until there was a jingling of metal. Taking the keys, Hunter dashed ahead. I couldn't see anything except the ground in which Shawn traveled; first there was tar and broken pebbles, then a cream colored sidewalk, dead and brown grass, and finally a dark gray cement that was the landing to the stairs.  
  
"We're going up," Shawn said. "Are you alright?"  
  
Considering the fact I was dangling over a person's shoulders whom I had met just hours earlier, I was doing remarkably well. I told him so and he only made a small laugh. My leg hit the banister. I shouted.  
  
"We're almost there," he stated, but of course he was lying. We had just started climbing a second before.  
  
Shawn climbed, and my leg banged against the banister or his ribs with every movement. I wanted to scream at him, at the oddly terrifying pain in my leg, but I kept my voice to whimpers and occasional shouts and curses of pain.  
  
"Don't cuss," Shawn said for the fifth time as we had almost reached the top.  
  
"You fucking don't cuss when your leg is being fucked!" I screamed at him.  
  
"Don't cuss," he replied.  
  
I cursed.  
  
We reached the top of the stairs, Hunter opened a door, and Shawn carried me into his apartment. It was dark and a single light illuminated the room. The carpet, from my vantage point, was old and frilly, but it looked decently clean. Craning my neck, I saw an old, battered TV set; an old, battered stereo set that seemed to ooze death; chairs gathered around a flimsy card table that looked fit to fall at any given moment; two crates full of odd and misshapen things that I could only guess at; a chest that seemed to be decades old.  
  
"Here we are," Shawn announced and I shifted my head through the gap between his legs. The bottom of a rust-red couch gave to my vision. "Alley-oop," Shawn effected and suddenly shook me forward, using both hands to pull me back from my position. My leg shook pain. Cradling my back, he lowered me onto the couch, being as careful as he could with my leg and bruised body. My ribs had stopped their hurting awhile ago, but it still stung. He deposited me, carefully fixed my legs so that both were on the couch, and then stepped back to peer down.  
  
"Nice place," I commented, wiping sweat from my eyes, panting. I looked at my oddly bent knee and then up at Shawn. Hunter switched on another light and more of the place was illuminated. There was a small kitchen nook in the very back of the place. A small hallway gave into what I suspected to probably be a bedroom and a john. It was light badly, with a few windows that didn't look like they would allow in much light. There were stains over the walls, over the furniture, but none of it was actually dirty. It looked pretty decent, truth me told.  
  
"Thanks." Shawn stepped back and examined me again with his eyes. "We should probably do something about that leg."  
  
"It's fine," I said defensively. "It just hurts a little."  
  
"Can I look at it?"  
  
"No thanks," I said crudely. "No thanks whatsoever."  
  
"I'd watch my mouth, kid," Hunter snarled, stepping forward from the shadows to join Shawn in the center of the room.  
  
I rolled my eyes indifferently. "Its fine, thanks. It just hurts a little. I'm sure it'll be fine later."  
  
"Can you straighten it out?" Shawn asked.  
  
I lied. "Yeah."  
  
"Do it," Hunter said sharply. "Straighten it out."  
  
I began to do so. Something shifted, something rattled.  
  
And then I screamed.  
  
I threw myself back upon the couch, gritting my teeth, clenching my hands so hard my nails left indentions in my palms. The pain was unbearable. It was as if somebody had taken a thousand hot tips and stuck them straight through my bone. I buried my head in my misery.  
  
Through blurry eyes, I looked up at Shawn and Hunter. Shawn looked unfazed; Hunter, however, looked stricken and that startled me. If anything, it should have been Shawn who had the stricken look. But no, Hunter's eyes rolled and his mouth moved into an unhappy expression that spoke only of worry and pain. It confused me, and that broke through the pain that attacked me.  
  
"Something moved in there," Shawn said, interrupting my thoughts. "I think you shattered it, Chris. Shattered it pretty badly, too."  
  
"Did the gang do that?" Hunter asked, his voice thick.  
  
I had to lie. I couldn't tell them the truth. "They must have."  
  
"Where else are you hurt?" Shawn pondered.  
  
I contemplated. One of my ribs was probably broken, and the others were maybe bruised. My head ached and ached and pounded violently. My neck felt increasingly painful, my arms felt rubbery, and I basically felt like somebody had beaten the crap out of me. Well, that was true. Two times over. I told them so.  
  
"Alright, Chris. You've got to go to a hospital."  
  
Panic fluttered inside my chest. "You promised you wouldn't take me!"  
  
Shawn smiled a dazzling smile. "I know I did, but you need medical attention. Besides, nobody will ever have to know it's you."  
  
I felt thoroughly confused. "What?"  
  
"Hunter," Shawn cued.  
  
Hunter's worried look disappeared. "Shawn, it's illegal." He sounded as angry as ever.  
  
"Yeah, but you've done it before. You can do it again."  
  
"It costs money."  
  
"I'll give you the buck, buddy. Just get it done and explain to our young friend what you intend to do."  
  
Hunter cursed loudly and then his eyes settled on me. "You can procure documents, kid, that change your identity. It's like the Witness Protection thing, only if you've got the cash, you've got a new identity. You'll get a new Social Security number, a new name, a new everything. If you know where to look, of course. Shawn wants me to do that for you."  
  
I felt overwhelmed, but I had known that. Of course I had known that. I had considered it many times myself, but the cash had always been short in hand. "You'd do that for me?"  
  
Hunter looked pissed, but Shawn smiled again. "You're hurt, kid. You need medical attention and I intend to get you that. Hunter, when you can have them?"  
  
Hunter contemplated angrily. "I need his picture, since I can't take him in. And you're birthdate and any other information."  
  
I said nothing.  
  
Shawn eyed me. "I've got a camera with a few pictures left," he said. "It's left over from Walter's ring day. We can take it with that and get them developed. I'll get the camera."  
  
"Shawn, you have to go to work." Hunter sat down on the beaten chair in the corner by the card table. "I'm not going to let you stop going to work."  
  
"I'm going to work," he said, in a most humble voice. "Let's take this picture first so you can get to work."  
  
"I'm not your puppet, Shawn." Hunter rose again, and his voice was solemn. He looked at me, and then at Shawn. "I'll help you the best I can, but when it starts interfering with my personal life, I'm sorry. You're my best friend, Shawn, but he- "and he pointed at me "- is not going to ruin me. I'm sorry if I can't be more of a help."  
  
I didn't get angry. To my burning shame, I sympathized with him. I respected him. And that left me hollow.  
  
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I'm sorry it's so short, but I think I should just put something out there for my patient readers. So here you are! I hope you enjoyed it. 


	5. Chris: Breakdown

Here's my new chapter. I hope you all enjoy it. Thanks to those who are faithfully reading this; you totally rock.  
  
A/N: ** mean sort of flashback. My computer doesn't do italics unless it goes into spaced out form which bites. But I hope its okay.  
  
Without further constraints, I present to you, my loyal readers, my next chapter. Constructive criticism is greatly appreciated, because I feel I'm under par for this chapter. Any advice you could give is appreciate. As always, I accept flames as well. You've got to eat the entire apple if you want to taste it well.  
  
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From Here to Heaven  
  
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Part Five  
  
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Chris: Breakdown  
  
The knob to the door rattled and there was a scraping of keys against the chrome lock. Twisting myself around, I gave a soft groan as my almost healed ribs gave a twinge of pain. Propping myself up higher on the pillow behind my back, I used my arms to forcefully move my gimp knee away from the edge of the couch. The bulky brace strapped onto it made it rather difficult to move.  
  
The door opened and Shawn came in, followed by Hunter. They both carried a dozen or so bags and from the make, they appeared to have just gone grocery shopping. If it had only been Shawn, I would have made some remark about how sweet it was for a man to do a woman's job, but as Hunter's eyes fell on me, I remained silent.  
  
"Hi Chris," Shawn said cheerfully, heading into the small kitchen, tossing his bags onto the floor, Hunter a moment behind him. "How are you?"  
  
"I'm bored, Shawn, how are you?" I asked, keeping up the ritual that had started a week earlier. Both Shawn and Hunter had called sick into work the first day they had found me and Shawn had taken my picture with his camera. Hunter had taken the picture and all the other information I had provided grudgingly and had left, saying my fake birth certificate would be ready the following afternoon. The next evening Shawn had taken me to the local hospital, had gotten my knee taken care of as well as the other injuries I had sustained, and taken me back to his apartment. Since then while Shawn and Hunter were at work, I sat on his couch, bored, listening to his battered radio and reading whatever literature Shawn had scourged up for me.  
  
"I'm okay," he said. "You like tacos, don't you?"  
  
"I like whatever you've got," I said, the same odd feeling touching my heart every time he asked if there was something to my liking. I had struggled with the feeling immensely ever since they had found me. I couldn't name it yet and still had a hard time dealing with it. It was harder when Hunter was around, because he was so unfriendly.  
  
Hunter hadn't gotten any better since the first morning in the alley. He had taken the information angrily and had showed up the next day even angrier. He usually came by in the afternoons and evenings, after both he and Shawn had finished work, and talked with Shawn. He ignored me until it was absolutely necessary and snapped at me even then. Shawn appeared not to notice it and I followed his example. If Hunter wanted to play games, fine. I didn't live with him and if he disliked me, it was no sweat off my back.  
  
"That's good, because as of right now, it's the only thing I know how to make," Shawn said.  
  
"Maybe you try taking a culinary class," I said. "That usually helps."  
  
"Culinary classes cost money," interrupted Hunter. "Which isn't something in supply."  
  
"It was only a suggestion," I said, unfazed. "I was asking him."  
  
"No, but you're not exactly the easiest thing on the wallet, kid," Hunter replied.  
  
I blinked at him, hurt. I hadn't exactly volunteered to have Shawn take me in, but now I lived in his house and it was with his money I ate. Hunter's comment hurt me. I saw Shawn's eyes flash at Hunter, but he said nothing. So I would say nothing too. Hunter would see how badly his words had affected me.  
  
"Tacos are good, Shawn," I said, as if ignoring Hunter's last comment. "They're terrific, thanks." Shawn offered a smile, but his eyes wondered. I looked away.  
  
Sighing, I sank deeper into the pillow and heard the banging of cabinets and boxes and pans. If my leg had been better, I would have helped them. I was bored sitting on the ratty couch all day and I wanted to do something with my time. I could at least help Shawn out with his simple housekeeping duties, when I could start moving around in a day. I knew how to clean spotlessly, thanks to the hours of painful work I had to for one of my foster families. Shawn's apartment was far from the cleanest in the world. He was a typical bachelor, except now he was a father.  
  
I squirmed on the couch at the thought. When Hunter had gotten the birth certificate written up, Shawn had instructed him to have it written so that it read I was born to Shawn. My name was now officially Christopher Keith Michaels. The hospital had asked how we were related and Shawn had played the part perfectly. Given the fact that we both had blonde hair, though mines was a darker shade of blonde and same pale skin and blue eyes, it held. He was officially my father. I still wasn't quite sure about how I felt about that one.  
  
There was a sudden pained yelp and a loud clang as a pan hit the floor. Hunter sprang back, his finger in his mouth.  
  
"Burned yourself?" guessed Shawn innocently, but I too easily detected "serves you right" tone. At least we had retribution for Hunter's earlier comment. "That's why you usually don't put your hand too close to the fire, dear."  
  
I snickered, but Hunter didn't appear to hear me as he said, "Shut up! Don't you need to talk to the kid anyway? Why are you still in here?"  
  
I looked at them in surprise. Shawn needed to talk to me? Did he want to kick me out?  
  
"You can make tacos then?" Shawn asked frostily, as though Hunter had brought up a very sore subject.  
  
"Yes, I can," Hunter sneered. "Talk to the kid now."  
  
"His name's Chris," Shawn bristled and I felt myself stir. I had never seen Shawn and Hunter actually argue. I had seen Hunter angry with Shawn, and Shawn angry with hurt Hunter, but never at each other at the same time.  
  
"Well, talk to Chris then. I'll make your damn tacos." Hunter spat out the word and banged the pan down on the stove.  
  
"I'd appreciate it if you didn't try to break my stove," Shawn said. "You do know where everything is, don't you? I assume that since you practically live here, you would."  
  
Hunter replied, "I don't practically live here. I myself have a job that supports only me." His tone was biting.  
  
"I myself am not a selfish person," Shawn said, swinging around Hunter and through the small kitchen entryway into the living room. "Try not to burn the tacos, Hunter."  
  
Hunter didn't reply, but he went rigid as he ripped open a bag of tortillas.  
  
Shawn came up to me. His eyes were wary as he sat down on the beaten chair. He looked apprehensive and stared at me quietly for a few moments.  
  
"Shawn?" I asked softly. "Shawn, what's wrong?" My voice came out frightened and I berated myself. I could take care of myself just fine. I didn't need charity. If he decided to kick me out, I'd do fine.  
  
But then why was Hunter still angry? Shouldn't he be happy?  
  
Shawn sighed and smiled tiredly. "I'm not throwing you out, don't worry."  
  
"I wasn't," I said, bluntly, but the look in his eyes told me he knew the truth.  
  
"I'm glad," he said graciously. "I just have to ask you a question. Did you ever go to school in Canada? I assume you must've; you're as intelligent as anyone I've met your age."  
  
"I did," I said, surprised. "I went up until the beginning of tenth year." The moment the words left my mouth, I realized that I had slipped up. I was fifteen and if I had been on the run for the last year and a half, then that would have meant I should have been in ninth year, instead of tenth. But I had told them the true facts. Would they realize?  
  
Heart pounding, I saw no change in Shawn's eyes; they were too clouded and muddied to really poke through. Chancing a look at Hunter, I saw his hunched back as he read some instructions from a box. He didn't appear to have recognized my slip-up.  
  
"That would explain some of it," he said. "If we put you in now, you'd probably be a junior in high school, then?"  
  
I looked at him in some confusion. "I'm not really sure about your high schools. In Canada we had years and just went by our years."  
  
"You're only fifteen," he said, frowning. "So you're probably only be a sophomore. That's the second year in high school."  
  
"We went up to thirteen years," I said, hoping that might clear some of it up.  
  
"That must be it, then. What classes did you take in your last year?" he asked.  
  
My mind raced as I formed my features into a look of confusion, as if I didn't remember. They wouldn't actually look up Canada's standards in a book, would they? If I told them stupid classes, they'd find me inept. It was better to show them how intelligent I was, wasn't it?  
  
"The beginning of the year I was taking calculus, chemistry, woodshop, PE, and some other things I can't remember," I said, really drawing a blank. "I was taking an advanced English, math, and history class, I remember that."  
  
"What a good little scholar," Hunter sneered from the kitchen, making me jump. I thought he hadn't been paying attention to what we were saying, but apparently he had.  
  
"Well, I'm sure he did better than you," Shawn shot back. "Shut up, Hunter, I'm not talking to you." He turned toward me again. "Well, Chris, I'm going to tell you something and I want you just to listen. I don't want you to interrupt."  
  
"It's if that's damn bad-" I started with a horrible feeling.  
  
"Don't curse," he corrected me and I fell instantly silent. I had never worked out Shawn's insistence on stopping me from using the words I had always, but I humored him. He continued with a reprimanding look. "Chris, I think you need to go back to school."  
  
For a second, I merely looked at him. He had to be joking. "You're kidding right?" I asked, not sure of what to say. "You've got to be joking."  
  
"Rest assured, he's not!" barked Hunter angrily from the kitchen. "And don't try arguing with him, kid, I just go a tongue-lashing myself. He's hell bent on sending you to a school so you can better yourself. There's not a point in you trying to argue."  
  
It was a funny speech and both Shawn and I stared at him. He was angry at Shawn himself, but he didn't want me to argue with him. He didn't want me trying Shawn, was that it? Shouldn't he be trying to convince Shawn that it was a stupid idea? I didn't get it. I couldn't work out his feeling and his attitudes and it burned me.  
  
But Shawn wanted to send me to school? I looked at him in amazement. "You're really serious?"  
  
He nodded, though his teeth chewed on his lower lip. "Yes, I think I am. There's not use growing up in a world where you're uneducated, though you seem smart enough to me. And besides, I think you'd like something to do with your days, no?" He smiled at me and my heart almost broke.  
  
He wanted to send me to school! Oh, how I had yearned for that! School had been always one of the things I had enjoyed. It was a haven from the fists and shouts of my foster homes and thought all the kids grumbled about how mean the teachers were, I knew how kindly they were in comparison to the darker people of the world. And the freedom! Oh, the freedom to talk, to snap, to do whatever I had wanted, knowing that while I was at the school, no one could touch me.  
  
And the knowledge. How I missed that knowledge. I had been the teachers' pet at my school. Though I was resented for that, I had taken satisfaction and particular pride, something I didn't feel much at my home, when I found the correct answer. It wasn't easy to me, I had to work for it, but I enjoyed it. I enjoyed the literature most particularly. When the hands of my captors had rained upon me, I would nurse my bruises and my anger in the capable hands of a book. I had lost myself in the fiction of dragons, of fairies, and most often in the literature of olden periods. Shakespeare had called out to me most; I had spent more nights than I could count rereading the lives of Julius Caesar's assassinators. I loved to read, I loved it direly and I wanted to read more.  
  
But I didn't tell Shawn that. Instead, I turned my eyes away from him, so he couldn't see the emotion on my face, and I replied in a voice that trembled, "I think I'd like that. I think I'd like that very much."  
  
I kept my head down, so Shawn couldn't see my face, but I saw his hands go to the brace on my leg. I refused to look up. The emotion on my face was too clear. If I looked up, they would both see how badly I wanted this. And that could be a weakness, if they so chose to make it one.  
  
"How's your leg?" he asked, totally off the subject.  
  
Keeping my head down, I replied, in a voice that trembled slightly, "its okay. It's better than it was yesterday. I was going to try walking for real tomorrow without holding the wall."  
  
"Shall we try two weeks from now, then?" he asked, gently, and I turned my face to him. He was looking at me with intense eyes, eyes that were predominantly compassion and pain. "You'll still need the brace, since the doctor said you'd need it for a couple of months, but you'll be able to walk. You'll need some physical therapy, though."  
  
I didn't say anything.  
  
Shawn sighed. "Chris, you don't have to do this if you don't want to. I just thought it might be a good idea." He paused. "Really, you don't have to-"  
  
"I do!" I burst out, surprising myself. I saw Hunter's back straighten. "I really, really do! It's just . . . it's just . . ."  
  
"It's just what?" Shawn pressed soothingly.  
  
"It's just that it's like you've adopted me or something. It's like I'm really your kid." I regretted the words the moment they left my mouth and I lowered my head even further in embarrassment. If I could have run from the room, I would have. I didn't need their stares, their exclamations that I was indeed really their child and they loved me as much as so. If they did that, they'd turn around the next moment and hit me. I closed my eyes in pain. Why couldn't it all just leave?  
  
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*"Can you move?" Samantha asked me, her voice a tiny squeak.  
  
I tried to smile at the little girl, tried to assure her that everything was alright, but it wasn't- oh God, it wasn't. They had never used the iron before, he had never used his belt like a whip. I hadn't even thought they would try to use the iron. I hadn't thought that their type.  
  
Never underestimate those you cannot trust.  
  
But at least I had saved Samantha from a beating. The bastard had tried to rape her. I had saved her, at least for now. When I recovered a little, I'd call the cops. I had tried to stand it for as long as I could. The beatings had been small at first, a backhand that sent me tumbling to the floor, but they had increased steadily. First it had been the belt across my neck and back. The bruises on my neck had stood out. And then, after weeks of the belt beatings, he had finally used the iron, the belt, and his fists. He had been going after Samantha when I had gotten home. She was screaming her lungs out, but did the shitty neighbors care? Or course they didn't.  
  
I knocked him to the ground, ran upstairs, and tucked the little girl in a closet under a pile of clothes after enforcing her that she had to remain quiet, no matter what. Samantha was the brightest girl her age I had ever seen, but she was scared. She stayed quiet while I ran out of the room, down the hallway, and started to make it seem as though I was making for the window. I hoped his attention would be diverted from my foster sister, and it had. He had found me in his bathroom.  
  
He hit me, over and over, until I was unconscious for a few minutes. When I came to, he had tied my hands over my head tightly with his belts and was sitting on my legs. In his hands he held the iron, blinking its red light. And then he had used it again and again. I had tried to stop the screams, but they had leaked out, and that enraged him. He slapped my head against the metal floor and I was gone.  
  
Samantha had revived me and untied my hands. I lay on the floor, trying to breathe. I was burned badly in many different places, with too many bruises and hurt ribs to count.  
  
"I can move," I whispered to the little girl. "Where is he?"  
  
"He left," she said back, touching my burn gingerly, but her cool, small hand was a welcome. "Can you get up, Chris?"  
  
"No," I said, coughing, wracking my body with pain. "Sam, I need you to run downstairs and get the phone. Are you sure he left?"  
  
"I think so," she said in terror. "But I don't want to go, Chris. I'm scared."  
  
"I need you to, Sam. I need to call the cops and get us out of here. You're a brave girl, Sam. You're the bravest I've ever seen. If he grabs you, yell for help." I knew it was weak. If he was downstairs waiting, it didn't matter. He'd grab Samantha, make her scream, and then I'd have to make my broken body move and rescue her. This time, he'd kill me, but I would save Samantha. We had to take the chance before I passed out again and left her to face his wrath when he returned.  
  
"If he grabs you, yell and I'll come down. This time, run across the street to Mrs. Smiths' house and use her phone. Tell her he's beating me up and I need the cops. Can you do that for me, brave little girl?"  
  
She smiled bravely and my heart ached for a youth corrupted so young. "Okay Chris. I can do that." And she ran downstairs. I counted to ten, let out my breath, and counted to ten again. If she was caught, I'd never forgive myself. I'd die damning myself.  
  
But she returned and with the phone, I called the police. They came immediately, took me to the hospital, and Samantha went to the Child Protection Services. I never saw her again. The next month, I lay in the very same predicament, only this time, there was no one to help me but myself.*  
  
__  
  
"Chris?"  
  
Shawn shook me from my revere.  
  
"Samantha," I whispered.  
  
"What?" asked Shawn in a confused voice. "Are you okay, Chris?"  
  
"I'm fine!" I yelled suddenly, surprising myself. "I'm fine!"  
  
I had frightened myself badly. How had I let the memory taken hold of me? I had shown my weakness in front of them and now they could use it. They knew I was weak. They knew I was helpless. And I had proven both the facts to myself as well.  
  
"Chris?" Shawn asked again, gently, his eyes wide in concern.  
  
"I'm fine," I said, closing my eyes in pain and turning away from them so they wouldn't see my face. "I'm fine. Just leave me alone."  
  
Please, just leave me alone. Just let me deal with it.  
  
"Chris, talk to me. What's wrong? Do you need a doctor?"  
  
"No, Shawn, I don't!" I was yelling again, tears jamming behind my eyes. I swiped at them angrily, furious at myself for letting myself cry. "I'm fine! Just leave me alone, okay?"  
  
"Chris," Shawn insisted. "There's something wrong."  
  
"Why don't you just leave me alone?" I screamed at him, struggling to move from the couch. "Why can't you just leave me the fuck alone?" The tears were falling from my face now, falling faster than I could wipe them up.  
  
How could they care so much? How could they throw their hearts into me? Hunter had, even though he adamantly refused it. Why else would he be sticking around? How could they?  
  
"Chris, what's wrong? Chris!"  
  
He grabbed my shoulders and spun me around to face him. I lowered my head and thrashed with my arms. "Leave me alone? Can't you leave me alone?" I was struggling, but his arms held me tightly and I was unable to move. My voice was high, falling as fast as my tears were. I was crying, sobbing, shaking in his arms.  
  
"Chris? What's wrong, buddy? Please tell me."  
  
His voice was gentle.  
  
He couldn't be gentle. He'd hit me the next moment. I cringed thinking about it. He couldn't care. Nobody was capable of caring.  
  
I heard Hunter's footsteps. NO! Not Hunter too! They'd both see how desperately weak I was. They were both seeing it now. No, they couldn't! They'd hit me the next second!  
  
I continued thrashing, but now I felt Hunter's hand on my middle, holding me gently too. I felt their stares and then Hunter's soft voice, "its okay, kid. We've got you."  
  
I went slack.  
  
Why? Oh why, oh why were they doing this to me?  
  
My tears fell faster, dropped onto my pants, and then Hunter's arms were around me, hugging me to his chest.  
  
What was he doing?  
  
I sobbed into his shirt, not knowing why, not caring. I felt safe in his arms. I wanted that safeness. I craved it. It didn't matter if the next moment he spun me away and started to hit me. It didn't matter. I was safe now, safe in somebody's arms, when I hadn't been safe in my entire life. I was sobbing and I was ashamed and they were seeing my weakness and I was going to be hit the next second, but I was safe.  
  
Slowly I stopped. I stopped shaking and went limp in Hunter's arms. He was cradling me, holding my head. My breath came out shallow.  
  
"Chris," Shawn said behind me, his hand touching my back. I flinched away, but Hunter's hands held me steady. "Chris, please. Talk to us. Tell us what's wrong."  
  
It was another minute before I allowed myself to speak and when I did, my voice was raw and muffled against Hunter's chest. "You care about me. You really care. And I don't know why."  
  
The words that tore from my lips tore more painfully than I could have imagined. I felt more liquid heat at the corners of my eyes but I clamped them shut hard and trembled in Hunter's arms. I could feel them looking at each other, pondering what to do. I had shown them my weakness. Would they capitalize on it now?  
  
Hunter's hand on my back moved away and I burrowed deeper into his chest, preparing myself for the strike I knew was coming. I heard the soft whistle of air as his hand came back down . . .  
  
He started to rub my back.  
  
And that was enough to send my tears off again. 


	6. Hunter: Simmering

Hey my readers. I'm sorry for the LONG delay in updating. This chapter has been in the works for awhile and I just finished it up. I know it's short, but I was confused for a long time about where the direction of the story I was going. After some long thoughts, I've decided in what direction I do want it to take.  
  
Enough of that and thanks to everybody who reviewed the last chapter. You are all greatly loved and appreciated!  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own anybody mentioned in this story; they own themselves. If you sue me, you may get a dollar; I don't know, I haven't counted the change on my dresser recently.  
  
Thanks so much for all reading and I hope you enjoy it. Constructive criticism is always appreciated. __  
  
From Here to Heaven __ Chapter Six __ Hunter: Simmering __  
  
"He's an emotionally distraught kid," Shawn said, gazing down at the sleeping form surrounded by blankets.  
  
"Let's leave him here," I said a little more quietly. "He needs to sleep." Nodding at me, Shawn tiptoed out of the room. I remained for a moment more. He looked so weak where he was, his thin body wrapped in Shawn's comforter. His chest rose smoothly with each breath, but I remembered too clearly when he had struggled when I had first laid him on Shawn's bed. The thought hurt me more than I thought possible.  
  
"Hunter!" Shawn quipped from the door. "Come on!"  
  
With one last look at his form, I left the room and shut the door with a slight tap. Shawn looked at me wearily and started to speak but I shook my head and pointed down the hallway toward the kitchen. There was no need to start a ruckus and wake him up while he slept. When we entered the living area, Shawn flopped down on the couch and I took a seat in the beat armchair. For a moment, we just looked at each other.  
  
"So," I said finally, softly. "What do we do?"  
  
"What do you think?" he said, a touch of sarcasm in his voice. "He's going to school. We don't have his transcripts or anything, but it'll be easy to pass it off. He'll have to work on that knee of his, but I think it could be good for him."  
  
"You know that's not what I'm talking about." I tested each word, wondering how I should say what I was about to. "He's obviously . . . emotionally distraught, like you said. He's been through bad stuff. It's not just going to go away."  
  
Shawn raised an eyebrow at me. "So you care now?"  
  
I felt the first stirrings of anger. "Of course I do."  
  
"That's a surprise," he said sarcastically. "Because frankly, I was starting to wonder. And you can bet Chris never even thought you cared. You treat him like dirt, Hunter. You treat him like he's lower than a human."  
  
"I do not!" I said indignantly. "Of course I don't! I do care about him. I found him with you, didn't I?"  
  
The blaze in Shawn's eye did not go out. "Hunter, please. Today you acted like he was some spoiled little brat who I keep wasting my money on. You act like he's a kid I'm just keeping for the weekend. Like you can treat him like dirt because he's a kid that I just pulled off the streets. Obviously the system damaged him. You're treating him like he's already gone off the deep end."  
  
"I do not!" I went to my feet. "I do not, Shawn!"  
  
"Stop your crap," he snapped angrily, getting to his feet as well. "You know it! Ever since we found him you've treated him like that! I thought it was going to go away, you'd accept him eventually. But you know what, I'm tired of waiting. I never said anything because I thought it was going to go away. But he's not going anywhere and neither are you. I want you to stop treating him like that!"  
  
"I'm treating him like he should be treated!" My voice was low, but it could not have been more dangerous if I had been yelling. "He's been through hell and I'm trying not to treat him like he has! You're the one sucking up to his every need!"  
  
"To his every need?" He was yelling. Shawn had never been one to conceal his emotions like I had. "I'm treating him the way he should be treated! I'm treating him like he's been through hell and I'm helping him out of it!"  
  
"You're treating him like a baby! You're treating him like he can't do anything right and you have to correct it!"  
  
"I may be doing that," he shouted furiously, "but at least I'm not treating him like he's some stupid drug dealer who's lived the perfect life up until now! I'm not treating him like he's some fucking idiot! Do you know what he thinks of you? Have you ever looked into his eyes? You're hurting him! You're hurting him the way you're treating him! You're not treating him any better than any of his other foster families have! You might as well be hitting him!"  
  
He turned away, seething, and I stared at his back.  
  
I couldn't be treating him like that, could I? No, he was just lying. He saw his own defeat at my hands and he was making penance for it by making me look bad. I hadn't wanted to hurt Chris.  
  
I had never wanted to hurt him. I had treated him exactly like he needed. He needed what tough love we could give. If I had to follow that philosophy, I would. I hadn't wanted to hurt him- but by showing him how badly he could be treated, he would rise above it. I never treated him sarcastically. I never treated him like he was inferior. He was my polar opposite, true, but he needed to be taught his place. He needed to learn how to deflect water and I was teaching him how to do it.  
  
"I'm leaving," I said shortly. "I have to go to work tomorrow."  
  
"Of course you do," Shawn said in voice that struggled with its cool. "Of course you have to feed yourself. Don't bother coming by tomorrow. You might just upset him more."  
  
"I'm coming by tomorrow," I said, turning away. "I want to see how he is."  
  
"Don't bother," he repeated.  
  
"He's emotionally distraught," I said, stamping to the door, grabbing my jacket. "He needs all the help he can get. You're not the only one who cares about him."  
  
"Damn good you are at showing it," he snorted.  
  
I went out the door without answering, shut it so loudly I heard a cry from Shawn's neighbor, and hurried down the stairs.  
  
I'd be back tomorrow and I'd kill Shawn if I had to do it.  
  
__  
  
There was a slight creak at the door.  
  
"Shawn!" I hollered, pounding, waving my bag of slightly cold hamburgers. "SHAWN! Open the door! Open this damn door or I'll open it MYSELF!" I was mad. My hand was burned from a grease basket that someone had left on too long and now the burn was smarting. All in all I was in a bitter mood.  
  
The door opened and my mood changed.  
  
"I swear, you're impossible, you-"  
  
I stopped.  
  
In front of me, leaning on one leg heavily while he seemed to fight to keep his balance, was Chris. He looked paler than he had even yesterday and there were dark bags under his eyes like he hadn't gotten enough sleep- or he had been crying. His eyes were tired and seemed to be glazed over from something that I could only guess was pain. But when he saw me, they sharpened.  
  
"Hi Hunter," he said, reproachfully. "Shawn's not here. He went to the store to buy some aspirin. He left a few minutes ago."  
  
I nodded, wondering if it was a good thing that Chris was alone in the apartment all by himself. We stared at each other.  
  
"Do you want to come in?" he asked awkwardly, holding the door open.  
  
"Yes," I said, walking in. "I brought you guys something to eat. It's cold, but it's food."  
  
He seemed taken aback and I remembered his actions yesterday. "I guess thanks."  
  
"Nothing to it," I said simply and walked toward the kitchen while he shut the door. "Why the hell are you up anyway?"  
  
"I'm practicing walking," he said almost defiantly. His voice was strained.  
  
I was going to ask him if he was alright, but decided the better of it. He would only think I was babying him. "How are you doing?" I asked instead.  
  
"I can get from the couch to the door." He hobbled painstakingly toward the couch. I could see the pain dominating his features, but he was trying not to show it. "And I can get to the kitchen and the bathroom. I think I'm doing okay." He fell silent and I caught the look of shame on his face. Why was he shameful? Because he was better and was flaunting it? I didn't know, but it surprised me. However, I kept that hidden.  
  
"Well, at least you can walk," I said as a-matter-of-factly as I could muster. "You should be thankful for that, kid. There are a lot of people who can't."  
  
"Yeah, I know." His voice was a little resentful as he settled back down on the couch. An awkward silence elapsed. We had never been together often. Whenever I was here, Shawn had also been present. I knew how to act with Shawn, but without him I felt lost.  
  
"What store did Shawn go to?" I asked, just to break the silence.  
  
He contemplated as he dragged his leg upon the couch, wincing but quickly dashing it away. "I think he went to Wal-Greens, but I'm not sure. He said he'd only be a few minutes, a half an hour at the most."  
  
"What did he need the aspirin for?" I said absentmindedly, taking out the hamburgers.  
  
"He was buying it for me." He suddenly paused and sucked in his breath, holding it. I looked at him in surprise and his head was low; he was looking at his thighs and he was rigid.  
  
"Are you okay, kid?" I asked, concerned. Was the pain really that bad?  
  
His head shot up and there was fear on his face. There was also confusion. "He bought it for me," he repeated and his eyes went back to my face.  
  
"What?" I asked annoyed. "Chris, what's wrong?"  
  
"There's nothing wrong with me," he answered quickly and lowered his head again. "I just thought . . . never mind."  
  
"What did you mean?" I demanded, dropping the burger I was holding. "You thought what, kid? I'm getting impatient."  
  
"Nothing," he mumbled, his head sinking even further.  
  
"Chris!" I said sharply. "Tell me what's wrong, you little shit."  
  
He trembled and suddenly I went back to the night before.  
  
I remembered how I had lifted my hand and shifted so I could rub his back. I remembered him flinching away, jerking away hard . . . like I was going to hit him.  
  
And now he thought I was going to yell at him. He thought I was going to scream and hit him, just like his old foster families had done.  
  
I felt a wave of shock hit me.  
  
He thought I was just like his foster family.  
  
He felt exactly like Shawn said he felt.  
  
The shame hit me so hard I felt like I was burning. I stared at his trembling figure, at the way he tried to fight off the fear but was failing and didn't want me to look upon his shame. His shame, if brought on by the fact that he couldn't conceal his fear from me, was nothing compared to my own shame.  
  
"Chris?" I asked softly.  
  
"There's nothing wrong!" he yelled suddenly, blazing. "Okay, look, Hunter, there's nothing wrong." He stopped and when he spoke again, he was forcefully calm. "There is nothing wrong. I was going to ask you a question, but I stopped. I'm sorry if I offended you." His voice was cool. A moment ago he had been screaming. And now he couldn't care more.  
  
"Chris," I pressed. "Chris, please, I'm sorry-"  
  
The door opened.  
  
I looked up in surprise as Shawn came striding in the door, holding a plastic bag weighted with a few items. He saw me immediately and stopped, his mouth about to open. I opened my own mouth to speak.  
  
"He brought us something to eat, Shawn," Chris blurted and we both looked at him. His eyes were round and tired, but there was a glinting edge to his gaze. "He only came by a few minutes ago. He hasn't done anything."  
  
"I wouldn't do anything," I said silkily to Shawn, moving out of the kitchenette, brushing my burnt hand on the way out, causing it to sting. "I just wanted to bring you guys something to eat. It was free."  
  
"It was free because it was sitting for twenty minutes," said Shawn scathingly. "A minute under and you would have served it saying it had just been made."  
  
I clamped down sharply on my anger. Fighting had led to the situation we were in and it would not lead us out. Angry words added to Shawn's own would only make the situation worse.  
  
"Well, you have you answer," I said, as cheerfully as I could. "You can probably just zap them in the microwave and they'll be as good as new."  
  
He regarded me with cool eyes. "If you made them, I'm sure they are anything but."  
  
The anger hit me so fast that I opened my mouth to speak without realizing what I was going to say. It was only at the last moment that I regained control. With great difficulty, I said, "I don't cook; I'm just your average cashier. I do know Joanie, though, and she's a good cook. Don't you think so, Shawn?"  
  
His gaze turned smoldering. "I know Joanie as well as you do," he snapped. "Quit playing games. What are you doing here?"  
  
I was slightly taken aback by Shawn's anger. He was a calm man, gentle and caring by nature and religion. He and I had been at odds before, for our friendship went long back, but now I could see the anger radiating from his face through his eyes and body. He was angry at me, almost the angriest I had ever seen him.  
  
"I'm here because I want to be," I said. "But if you want me to leave, I will."  
  
I glanced at Chris; he was watching the exchange between us with disquiet on his face. He was disturbed that we were fighting. I didn't blame him and I felt the shame again flutter at my insides and I cringed.  
  
Shawn didn't say anything. Instead, he angrily shoved past me into the kitchenette and threw the bag onto the countertop. He jerked the bag of hamburgers toward him and glared inside it, as if it were all the whole cause of his problem.  
  
It was a problem I didn't wholly understand and it made me angry, though I successfully suppressed it. It was obvious he cared about this kid. But he was going to throw our friendship through the door? I cared about Chris too; wasn't it obvious? I had stuck around this long and I had been paid nothing in return. Didn't he see that I did care? Why was he treating me like I was so violent? He had told me he thought I was treating the kid like dirt. I understood that, at least now. But he was being angry about it. He was acting like he was the only one worthy of caring.  
  
The hostile silence stretched on. Chris watched as Shawn started to fumble with the food I had brought and I sulked out of the kitchen and picked up my jacket, preparing to leave. I had come to make amends, had been treated to my quiet epiphany, and still hadn't made amends.  
  
Something burned in my heart, in my still burned hand.  
  
I put the jacket down, turned around, and started to walk over to the couch.  
  
Chris's eyes, who had been watching me, suddenly snapped back around toward Shawn. Like he had been sneaking glances at me. Like he didn't want me to know that I was the object of his gaze.  
  
I stopped where I stood, one foot resting on the floor, the other poised to continue my tread.  
  
Shawn dropped something in the kitchen. It dropped with a clattering sound, metallic sharp, hurting my ears.  
  
I didn't need this. God knew I didn't need this.  
  
I picked up my jacket, turned around, and walked back out the door, slamming it shut. For a moment I just stood there, my back pressed against the wall, breathing hard.  
  
Shawn was my best friend. He was practically a brother to me. I didn't want to lose him.  
  
And the kid . . . didn't want to accept him. Didn't want to realize that Shawn was serious. Didn't want to accept the fact that I did care about him.  
  
So I didn't.  
  
It was easier, really, to put everything on hold. Leave it all burning on the back end of the stove, let it heat for a long while. I'd do that. I didn't have to deal with this now. I didn't have to deal with the painful realization that my best friend did not only belong to me now. Things would smooth out. In a few days I would see him again. We'd go out and I'd buy him a drink. In a few days he would listen to me and understand me. In a few days I would listen to him and try to understand his decisions.  
  
I didn't need to think about the kid yet. I cared about him, yes. But I didn't need to think about him.  
  
Yeah, put it all on the back burner. Let it simmer for awhile. Let it simmer and when I was ready, I would return and shut it off and it would be cool. It wouldn't explode or anything, if I left it too long. Everything would be alright again.  
  
I started to descend the stairs, to go back to my car, and my burnt hand smacked against the railing. I drew in my breath sharply and looked at the skin. It was still red, raw. When I got home I would need to apply ice to it.  
  
Someone had left the grease basket on too long. It had simmered for too long and when I had opened it, it had burned me.  
  
Cradling my hand, I finished descending the stairs and got in my car.  
  
__ Again, I hope you enjoy it. On a side note, "Chase Away the Moon" will be updated when I can find out where I put the last chapter. (Grins sheepishly) I know I had it somewhere, but I can't exactly remember. I'm sorry for the delay in that too.  
  
I hope to update again soon, so please check back. 


	7. Chris: The Unknown

Hello, my readers. (smiles) Thanks for the positive reviews of last chapter.  
  
A/N: I know most of my chapters have been centering Chris's POV so far, and they may remain that way awhile longer, but Hunter will get his fair share in soon enough.  
  
Also, it has come to my attention that the reader known as "Krystalblazejerikor" has called me her sister. Jerk. The truth is out, friends.  
  
I was put into the Witness Protection Program (WPP) of Fanfiction.net approximately six months ago when I angered an author by sending a less than helpful response. Due to this review, the author buzzed my computer with a virus, one that sent my computer into total shock, causing me to lose practically all my stories. I pleaded into the management Fanfiction.net to put a stop to this user, but they revealed to me that this user was a liable threat in "real life" and my situation was only a taste of his power. Due to this, they could not shut him down, for fear of a total chaotic breakdown of Fanfiction.net and fear of assassinations in "real life," possibly my own. For this reason I was sent into the WPP, where I was given this new identity and told to live a quiet life.  
  
But for now, Krystalblazejerikor has endangered my life.  
  
For I am known other than the Jerikor of the two.  
  
Yeah right. There is no WPP of Fanfiction.net, I made it up as a fancy way of saying this was my new penname, and my old was Krystalblazejerikor, and I really am Jerikor of the two. This is my new penname, though I do still post stories in my old penname, the recent being "To Kill it All Away." Shameless self plug.  
  
Happy now?  
  
I hope this causes none of you to lose respect for me . . . or anything. Lol.  
  
Sorry for the incredibly long note . . . I hope you got a laugh out of it.  
  
Disclaimer: I do not own Chris Irvine, Hunter Leseveque, Shawn Michaels, or Joanie Laurer. They belong to themselves and I make no claim to their minds or thoughts.  
  
On to the fic!  
  
__  
  
From Here to Heaven  
  
__  
  
Chapter Seven  
  
__  
  
Chris: The Unknown  
  
__  
  
"This school seems to have a lot of activities," said Shawn, browsing through the literature that had come in the mail.  
  
Even a week after the declaration had been made, I still felt the awe in what had transpired. In the corner of the apartment sat a backpack, a few binders, and packages of pens and pencils. Open before us on the coffee table were papers and certificates, spread in a messy chaotic order. Resting on a cushion was my braced leg, which I was massaging with my hands for the spikes of aching pain that shivered through it. Therapy was preparing me for what lied ahead.  
  
And what was ahead, in four days, was Franklin Memorial High School.  
  
I felt . . . I felt happy.  
  
I hadn't felt happy in a long time.  
  
"It does," I said. "When do I get to choose my classes?"  
  
"You should probably look at this first," he said, sliding a booklet toward me. "It's the class description booklet. They offer advanced courses. Did you say you took those?"  
  
"Yes," I answered, starting to flip through the booklet. I turned to the page about credits and scanned the writing for a moment. "Wait. Did you say that when you're fifteen you're a sophomore?"  
  
"Yeah," Shawn said, now reading a pamphlet on the lunch program. "So?"  
  
"Well, it actually depends on how many credits you have," I said, keenly aware of what he read. "It says I'd be a junior, with the amount of credits I have."  
  
He looked up at me in surprise. "Well, then you'd graduate a year early. I guess that's a good thing."  
  
I cocked my head at him. Did he want me to graduate early? I'd be only sixteen when I graduated, not even legal. It was probably better to graduate at the right age, at least here- I'd still only be seventeen, but it would be closer than sixteen.  
  
I looked at Shawn. "What do you think?"  
  
He seemed surprised. "It's not my decision, it's yours. I'd say go for it."  
  
I looked back at the description booklet. I'd still be young when I graduated, but at least I'd have something challenging to occupy my mind with. And besides, it was a year out of Shawn's pocket- if I actually stayed around that long.  
  
"I'll be the junior," I said. "At least I'll at be challenged in the classes."  
  
"That's the spirit," he said, smiling, his eyes going back to the pamphlet he held. "I think we can you on the free lunch program. Single-parent . . . yeah, I make less than that. Well, at least you'll be able to eat."  
  
I didn't answer him; I wasn't sure how. I remembered with too much clarity, and too much shame, the night I had broken down in front of Shawn and Hunter. Sometimes I still got angry thinking about how far I had let myself fall. It was just another mistake on my record. Another mistake that haunted me was the day after, when Hunter had come over with his bag of food.  
  
I still burned over that. Since that day, almost a week ago, I had not seen Hunter. And Shawn barely even talked about him, just in passing reference, almost like a joke. They were still fighting, I could see. A deep wedge had been driven into their friendship, and that deep wedge had been me. It scraped at the pit of my belly, that shame. I wanted to hide my head and hurt myself when the memory what had happened surfaced in my mind.  
  
I had caused the rift. I was the rift.  
  
And that hurt me more badly than I ever thought it could.  
  
I hadn't said anything about it and neither had Shawn. I could see the look in his eyes sometimes, at night when it was just me and him. He looked restless, almost bored. He would talk to me, and then we'd run out of things to talk about and he'd get this . . . lonely look in his eyes. He missed his best friend.  
  
And I was the reason. I was the only reason.  
  
"Chris?"  
  
Shawn's voice broke my revere and commanded my gaze.  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"I was saying, are you ready to start on Monday?" He looked at me closely, as though my failure to respond to him the first time was the bottom line, that he now doubted my capability to function on Monday.  
  
Following that line of thinking, I blurted, "I'm fine! I'm ready to start on Monday, trust me! Of course I'm ready, why wouldn't I be ready?"  
  
He smiled faintly. "I'm glad you are. But I really want to know if you will be with this leg of yours." He tapped the braced leg resting on the cushion.  
  
"I can walk," I declared, pushing back my chair and lowering my leg to the floor.  
  
"A demonstration isn't necessary, you don't have to do-"He started, startled.  
  
I threw myself to my feet and swaggered as best as I could around the little room. There was no pain anymore, really, in my knee- it was just the incapacity to bend and move the leg that was the problem. My step was a shuffling one, a lopsided gait that made me look more hurt than I really was. I had gone to three sessions of therapy, to restore movement to the limb and provide mobility in the brace. The only hurt I felt were aches after walking and standing for too long. Those aches could be fiery and sometimes they caused me to cry to myself at night, but most of the time I lapped up the pain medication and it was all better, no more worries.  
  
I turned around and settled my eyes on Shawn, smiling. "See? I'm ready."  
  
"You're sweating," he observed.  
  
"You need an air conditioner," I said, making my way back toward the table. "I'll be fine, Shawn. Really, I will be. But I want to know if you will be."  
  
Once the words left my mouth I couldn't call them back.  
  
I watched Shawn's face form into puzzlement. "What are you on, kid?"  
  
I took a steadying breath, praying I was ready for this conversation, praying that if I messed up and caused him hurt, he wouldn't seek retribution through the punishment of me. "I want you to talk to Hunter, Shawn. If that's okay with you," I added quickly.  
  
He eyes arched in surprise. "What gives you the impression we aren't speaking?"  
  
I allowed that illusion to hold for a second, so that I wouldn't have to finish this talk, but I knew it was false, and I let the vision evaporate. "I know you aren't, Shawn; I'm not stupid. Please, can you please just talk to him?"  
  
He sat very still and no emotion crossed his face. "I don't need to talk to him. We still see each other."  
  
Again, the image of rightness lasted only a second. "I know you're don't, Shawn. Please talk to him! You miss him!"  
  
He looked at me and this time, an emotion like loneliness and anger permeated his eyes. "I don't have to have this conversation with you," he said stonily. "Now find what classes you want so I can take you down to the school so you can make give them to the counselor. It's almost time."  
  
How desperately I wanted to let this go, to let us go on blissfully unaware of the damage being done. If I persisted, he would get angry, and I didn't know what he would do if he was angry. I trusted him not to hurt me . . . but for the second time, his silence was worst then his fists could ever be.  
  
"You don't," I said, trying to draw in my courage. "I'm asking you to, Shawn. Please! I know you've given me a lot, and I'm grateful for it. But I won't have you lose Hunter over me!"  
  
He stood up, pushing at the contents on the table. "I said to hurry up."  
  
Anger now, filtering through his voice. Fear quaked through me and I tried not to let the shudders shake me. Not too much.  
  
"No. I'll leave then."  
  
I started to get up, slowly pushing back my chair.  
  
"You're not going anywhere, Chris, sit your ass back down," he growled, pushing gently on my shoulder to sit me back in the seat.  
  
I trembled underneath his hand slightly. I had lost so much control over the past week it scared me.  
  
"No," I repeated. "Shawn, you're being stupid. I'm not coming in between you and your friend."  
  
"He's still my friend," Shawn snapped, releasing my shoulder. "Now hurry up!"  
  
"You let him go!" I clenched my fists. "You let him go for me!"  
  
He paused for a moment, hazel eyes cold. "I did no such thing," he breathed, starting away.  
  
"You don't even care about him anymore! As soon as I got here, you let him go! Now stop being such a stubborn asshole and call him!"  
  
He stood rigidly, his back to me. My body quivered as he stood there, silently, for almost a moment, not speaking. In the depths of silence around us, I could feel the ripples of his tension, of my own abated breath and fear. Into this I had never willingly tread. But now into it I dove, pushing away the pain, and while I pushed that away, back came the certainty that after this, I would be punished.  
  
His body sagged slightly and he turned back around to face me. "Get up and go wait in the car," he said.  
  
I blinked at him. "What?"  
  
"You heard me. Go wait in the car."  
  
"Shawn-"  
  
"GO WAIT IN THE CAR!"  
  
Fear thundered through me, adrenaline screamed through my veins, and I clambered up off the chair, desperately making for the door. My back was to him; I was defenseless in my position. Tears were welling behind my eyes and in my head I could hear the voice, telling me again and again, you were stupid for ever listening to him, stupid for ever trusting him.  
  
I tore open the door and bright sunlight bore down upon me as I heard a clatter of footsteps, coming closer to me, and pain broke into my mind. He was going to hit me, he was going to-  
  
I threw myself out the door and slammed it shut, not even waiting for it to close before I was dragging myself down the stairs, my breath coming out in furious pants. As I reached the landing of the stairs, Shawn's battered, rusty car came into my view, sitting there serenely as though everything was right in the world.  
  
Everything was not right in my world.  
  
Tears blurred my eyes. Shawn had said to wait in the car. But Shawn was angry now. He was going to come down those stairs, go the car, and if I was in it, he was going to hurt me. Agony thudded through my heart. Why had I trusted him? Why had I even listened to him?  
  
It was stupid. It was a stupid dream that I shouldn't even had believed. It was my own stupid fault for being so naïve and thinking that there was a person in the world who cared.  
  
I wasn't going to wait around for Shawn to come down the stairs so he could hit me. He might come down, apologize for yelling, but in the end, he would punish me. The mask he had worn for the past week was deceptive, the Roman hind becoming the lion. He had helped me, yes- but it all fell away now.  
  
Everything fell away now.  
  
I shuffled furiously past the car, toward the edge of the building. I could hide in the alley running along behind the apartment complex. I'd wait until dark and then I'd stealthily make my way toward the highway, where I could follow it west. It would be a slow process, one of sickness and pain, but it was better than being stuck here in a place where I was hunted. Yes, the highway. I could make it there in less than an hour. Long trek to California, and then to Mexico. Yes, Mexico, where-  
  
"Hey! You!"  
  
I froze, shivering. Every fiber in my being told me to move, but I remained as still as a sculpture.  
  
"Kid, come here."  
  
I turned around, my heart about to burst from my rib cage.  
  
The police officer in the dark blue uniform started to jog up to me, dark glasses covering the top part of his face. His name tag read JONES and his belt looked especially cruel. He looked like one of those men from the movies who, when you least expected it, turned out to be the killer in the dark corner. He was approaching me warily, hands outstretched, mouth twisted into a grimace.  
  
"What are you doing out of school?"  
  
I blinked at him, not really comprehending his meaning. Everything in my body told me to run, to sprint off down the alley and escape this cop. I was trapped if I didn't move! Trapped between this cop and Shawn. Trapped between things that, if given the chance, would both hurt me . . . the only way out of the pain was through the alley and I was paralyzed!  
  
"Why aren't you in school?" the cop repeated, coming stand a few feet away from me.  
  
TRAPPED!  
  
I started to inch away, toward the alley, the paralysis finally releasing its grip on me.  
  
"Don't do anything stupid," Jones warned, his hand gravitating toward his belt and nightstick. "Are you ditching? That's all I want to know."  
  
I had to remain calm. I could talk my way out of this. My eyes drifted toward the complex. I had to do it quickly.  
  
"No, sir, I'm not ditching," I said, breathing hard. "I'm new to the area and I'm starting on Monday. My dad and I are going right now to write down my classes."  
  
To my own ears my voice rang with sincerity, and for a moment, I held in my hands the hope that I had actually fooled the cop.  
  
"That's a mighty good story," Jones said, eyeing me, or at least looking like he was through the glasses. "But the fact is, you look like a runaway. Fancy finding you here."  
  
My breath caught in my throat.  
  
NO!  
  
"Sir," I managed. "My dad's right in the apartment."  
  
He smiled grimly. "I don't think you're ditching, but I don't think that you're telling the truth either. Now come on. What's your name?"  
  
My mind raced.  
  
There was no way out.  
  
With my bad leg there was no way I could outrace him down the alley. And if I went the other way, I went straight back to Shawn. I was trapped! Each way was the wrong way and I was trapped!  
  
"What's your name, kid? I'm going to call CPS. You're a foster runaway, aren't you?"  
  
My heart thundered inside my chest and I wanted to cry.  
  
More pain.  
  
More pain either way.  
  
"You fit the description of the foster runaway I just got," he said, his voice turning cajoling. "Blonde hair, long, blue eyes, 5'6. You look pretty banged up too, kid. Now what's your name?"  
  
"Chris Michaels," I squeaked, the words coming of their own accord.  
  
"Michaels," Jones mused, looking at me hard. "I've got an APB for Chris Irvine. Are you sure that isn't you?"  
  
I closed my eyes.  
  
I was dead.  
  
"CHRIS!"  
  
Shawn came barreling down the stairs, clutching what looked like a sheaf of papers in his hand, racing toward us.  
  
Panic surged through me, vitalized me.  
  
I could leave, now, run and then get caught.  
  
Trapped.  
  
Deer in the headlights.  
  
I trembled and didn't move.  
  
"Sir," Jones said, his voice betraying his confusion. "Do you know this boy, sir?"  
  
"He's my son, Officer," Shawn said breathlessly, and I almost collapsed. "Is he in any trouble?"  
  
So I'd be going with Shawn now.  
  
"No trouble," the officer replied, still confused. "I'd like to know why he's out of school, though."  
  
"We're new to the area," Shawn explained. "I'm taking him to sign up at Franklin Memorial right now." He showed the cop the papers in his hands like an explanation. I realized it was the course description booklet.  
  
The cop nodded, still eyeing me. "I just thought he was ditching," he said, smiling pastily. "I'm sorry for the trouble. Have fun at school."  
  
He turned around and walked back to the police cruiser parked by the curb.  
  
"No trouble, Officer," Shawn chirped cheerfully as Jones drove away. "Just doing our parts as citizens!"  
  
I stood motionless as Shawn walked closer to me.  
  
"That was a close one," he said, taking my shoulder in his hand.  
  
I jerked away, looking up at him wide-eyed.  
  
He frowned. "Chris . . ." He stretched his hand out to touch me again.  
  
I moved just out of his grip and he looked at me, puzzled.  
  
"Chris, what's wrong?"  
  
I waited for him to make his move, for him to strike me. Maybe I could get in one hit. One hit to cripple him momentarily and then I'd . . . I'd do something. I'd move. I'd just GET AWAY!  
  
"Chris, I'm sorry for yelling at you, it was a stupid thing to do." He again moved toward me and I again took a step back.  
  
"Go ahead," I dared, my voice shaking. "Go ahead and try it."  
  
His mouth twisted into a confused look. "Try what, Chris? Chris, you have to tell me what's wrong. Are you mad because I yelled at you?"  
  
I breathed hard. "Go ahead and try hitting me," I repeated, daring him. If I dared him, I'd be ready when he really attacked. It was better if I was ready.  
  
His eyes dashed with confusion, puzzlement, and finally they settled into pain. "Chris, I'm not going to hit you," he said in a voice thick with pity. "Where did you ever get that idea from?"  
  
I stepped back, now almost even with the alley. "You know when," I hissed, chancing a glance. Empty. Totally empty. Good.  
  
His eyes were full of heartbreak. "Chris, please, I didn't mean to scare you, I really didn't mean to scare you. I wasn't mad at you. I was just frustrated. Come on, Chris. Just come with me. I'm not going to hurt you."  
  
How many times had I heard those lies before, spewed the same way they were being now?  
  
I started to inch toward the alley.  
  
"No, Chris, listen to me, you have to. I'm not going to hurt you. Now just come back with me to the car. We're going to sign you up for classes, remember? That's what we're going to do."  
  
"No," I said softly, and darted into the alley.  
  
"Chris, NO!"  
  
Footsteps after me.  
  
RUN!  
  
I clattered down the alley, my leg jerking. Run, move, FASTER!  
  
A hand grabbed my shoulder.  
  
Spun me around!  
  
NO!  
  
Shawn wrapped his arms around my middle and held me close to his side. I began to kick and yell, connecting with his flesh many times, but not nearly enough to break his hold. ESCAPE! I was still weak from my inactivity and my leg was slowing me down tremendously.  
  
"Chris, stop! Please stop!"  
  
He heaved me into the wall, pressing me flat against it, so I was held helpless.  
  
I screamed, fighting, fear pounding against me, hammering against my back, tampering with my winds.  
  
"Stop, Chris! Stop fighting! I'm not going to hurt you!"  
  
LIES!  
  
All of it was LIES!  
  
I struggled. I kicked. I fought. I screamed.  
  
But I couldn't get away.  
  
Trapped. Trapped as only a dead person could be trapped: in a coffin of pain and bitterness and silence.  
  
"Chris, please." Shawn's voice was soft and aching. "Please listen to me. Please stop fighting me."  
  
Slowly, slowly, slowly I felt my body relax.  
  
Slowly, slowly, slowly I felt the energy surging through me deplete.  
  
Slowly, slowly, slowly I came to the conclusion: I was trapped. He was going to punish me.  
  
There was nothing I could do.  
  
Accept the inevitable.  
  
Tears!  
  
NO TEARS!  
  
NO WEAKNESS!  
  
But they came. They squeezed through my closed eyelids, dripped down with startling heaviness, and sobs started to tear through my lips.  
  
"Chris, please," Shawn whispered, lulling me off the filthy alley wall and pressing me against his chest. "Chris, you have to believe me when I say I'm not going to hurt you."  
  
He started to stroke my hair, stroke me in the same manner that Hunter had the first night, the first time I had broken down.  
  
But I hadn't been hurt then.  
  
I shook against him, my tears soaking his shirt and dripping onto the wall.  
  
"I'm not going to hurt you," he repeated. "I am not going to hurt you. Look at me."  
  
I refused to turn my head and I trembled.  
  
He grabbed my head and forced my eyes to lock onto his own.  
  
His eyes held pain, only pain. Pain for what I couldn't be sure. Not a shadow of violence was in his gaze, not a whisper of doubt or anger. Only pity and pain. Only the two emotions I couldn't stand.  
  
"I'm not going to hurt you," he said softly. "You have to believe me when I say I'm not going to hurt you."  
  
I broke the connection of our gazes and he hugged me tightly against his chest, and the memory of safeness circled back to prey on my mind. I was safe again, safe here in a cradle of security and strength. In this haven I couldn't be touched. I was invincible to whatever emotion claimed me. As long as I stayed in this warm place, I would be okay. I would be safe, at least for a little bit.  
  
At least for a little bit.  
  
__  
  
The aroma wafting through the kitchen was tantalizing, a perfect complement for my aching stomach. The metal scraping a spoon against the bottom of a pan hurt my ears, but at least in a little while I'd be made of it with the soup.  
  
"It's going to be watery," Shawn warned. "I added too much water."  
  
Without even looking up from my hands, I replied, "That's fine."  
  
"Well, I hope you like broth," he said, sounding a little revolted. "I can never understand why some people like no meat and flavored water."  
  
"It's good flavored water," I answered. "Very soothing."  
  
"Broth is soothing. I still don't understand. It's water and some spices and that's all it is. You're crazy if- yap!" He yelped and I looked around to see him cradling his hand.  
  
"Are you okay?" I asked, already up out of my chair.  
  
"Fine," he said, blowing on his hand, wincing. "I hate cooking."  
  
I smiled.  
  
The phone jangled and I looked up at Shawn. I was nearer, but Shawn and I had an almost unspoken rule that I never answered it. Who knew who could be calling?  
  
"Answer it," Shawn said, turning on the water, shoving his hand under the stream, and letting out a moan of satisfaction as the cold substance hit his burning hand.  
  
I picked up the phone and answered, "Hello?"  
  
"Shawn? Shawn, is that you?"  
  
I cocked my head. It wasn't Hunter- not that I expected Shawn to take my advice and call Hunter. Tears blurred my eyes at the memory of the earlier day. I had acted childish and immature and proven to Shawn that I was still weak. He had promised we'd try the school again the first thing tomorrow morning, but I saw the way he looked at me, with arched eyebrows and unspoken questions. He doubted my mental stability.  
  
And unbeknownst to him, I doubted it as well.  
  
"Shawn, please!"  
  
"Hang on." I cleared my throat. "Shawn, it's for you. It sounds urgent."  
  
"Who is it?" he demanded, water still rushing over hand.  
  
"No idea. Who's this?"  
  
"Who's this?"  
  
I would have smiled if the tone in the man's voice hadn't been so serious. "I asked first."  
  
"It's Shawn's father, now put him on, whoever the hell you are! Where is my son?"  
  
"Oh." I looked back up. "Shawn, it's your dad."  
  
The water snapped off and Shawn rushed toward the phone, his hands still soaking wet, his face strangely pale.  
  
"Shawn, are you ok-"  
  
"Give me that!"  
  
He jerked the phone out of my hands and I fell back.  
  
No, he's not mad, he's not going to hurt you, it's just an important call.  
  
Somehow, someway, I managed to control my breathing, managed to control my heart and come to long enough to hear Shawn say, "Is she okay?"  
  
I watched as his face grew even paler and his mouth trembled and his hand went to his forehead and brushed back his hair. He made a lot of sounds, his voice tired and trembling and scared. He sat down in the chair, the phone dragging along the counter, spilling over a cup of water. He didn't even notice, his eyes stony and stoic.  
  
I went around the counter, grabbed the paper towels, and started to slowly wipe off the mess, still watching him closely.  
  
Finally he said, "I'll go up there as soon as I can. I have to pack a few things, but I should be up there by tomorrow morning at the latest. Will she . . . will she be okay until then?" A pause, a look of revelation in his eyes, and he said, in a slightly more energetic voice, "Okay, I'm on my way. Love you too, Dad."  
  
He hung up the phone and sat very still for a moment, eyes staring blankly ahead as I continued to mop up the mess. He stayed that way for another minute and finally I had to ask him, "Shawn, what's wrong?"  
  
He snapped out of his trance and his eyes glued to my face. "My mom's sick. They took her to the hospital. They said it's her diabetes catching up with her. She's okay now, and she should probably stay that way . . . but man, it scared me." His voice trembled, but he caught himself before he let any more emotion slip. "But I need to fly up there and see her, just in case it does go south. I've got to leave right now."  
  
He was up off the chair and down the hallway toward his bedroom before I could say a word. I finished cleaning up the mess in the kitchen, and then just stood there, feeling suddenly very much alone.  
  
Had I been stupid enough to think that I was the center of Shawn's life? That now I was here in the world everything stood still? Now everything revolved around me? I had let myself fall into that thinking pattern. Now what? His mom was sick. It was a big deal. I was just a lump in the package. Probably just extra baggage. No point in having me around anymore.  
  
I threw the wet paper towels in the waste basket and turned off the stove before the complex could burn down. I hobbled into the living room and eased myself onto the couch, sitting rigidly, in any case Shawn needed me to do something, anything . . .or just leave. I could accept that.  
  
I could leave. No more pain. No more fear of pain.  
  
Shawn barreled down the hallway five minutes later, dragging a small duffel bag. He dropped it on the floor and went into the kitchen, busying himself in drawers and cupboards.  
  
I cleared my throat, steadied my voice, and said, "If you want me to leave . . ."  
  
His head snapped up at though he had just realized I was there. Eyes formed into confusion, as though he didn't recognize me. Tiredness settled on his face, followed by a small, sad smile. "Of course not, Chris. I don't want you to leave. I just can't take you with me. You understand, right?"  
  
"Of course I do!" I said loudly, a little too. "Of course! I . . . didn't think you were going to anyway."  
  
"Oh. That's good." There was an awkward silence following his words. "I . . . I don't want to leave you here by yourself."  
  
I frowned. "I've been taking care of myself for years, Shawn. I think I can handle it."  
  
His head tilted. "But that's made you what you are now. Being alone for so long." Before I could interrupt him, he went on, "I'll call Hunter. He can stay here while I'm gone- only a few days."  
  
I looked at him in amazement. "You're going to call Hunter?"  
  
He smiled again, a wisp of a smile. "Yeah, I'll call him. I don't want you being alone."  
  
I was half-touched, half-amused by his statement. I'd been taking care of myself for six years. Living on the streets for nearly a year of that time. And he thought that with a roof over my head I couldn't take care of myself? It was outrageous, really. He thought that after years of being alone I was incapable of taking care of myself? Funny.  
  
But at the same time, I felt a fuzzy feeling in my chest at the fact he cared enough, while he was in crisis, to make arrangements so I wouldn't have to be alone. And even though Hunter wasn't my favorite person in the whole world, there were a lot of people who weren't. And I could deal with Hunter.  
  
Shawn picked up the phone and dialed the numbers, slamming closed the drawer and stepping back into the hallway, presumably to head back into his bedroom. I could hear his distant voice, but couldn't discern the words. I felt strangely disappointed by it, although it was probably for the better that way. Again I sat in living room for another five minutes, tense, waiting for any instructions, should they come.  
  
Instead, Shawn entered the kitchen again, his face twisted in a sardonic expression, holding a smaller tan bathroom bag, tossing it on the floor next to the larger. "He'll be here in half an hour," he told me shortly, setting the phone back on the hook. "He's going to be spending the next couple of days here until I get back . . . he'll take you to the school tomorrow."  
  
"What?"  
  
"He'll stay here for a couple of days and he'll take you the school tomorrow. If I'm not back by Monday, he'll take you there again. I'll know by tomorrow when I'll be back. And if I'm not back by the weekend, he'll take you to get a few more clothes. Is that alright?"  
  
"Shawn . . ."  
  
"What?"  
  
I licked my lips. "You're not serious, are you?"  
  
He arched an eyebrow. "Why wouldn't I be? Have you seen the phone . ... ?"  
  
"It's on the hook." I stared at my clenched fist. "Shawn, you realize it's Hunter we're talking about, right?"  
  
He half-smiled at me. "Oh, so now you want me to take it back?"  
  
I shook my head furiously. "No! It's just . . . it's a lot of work."  
  
He smiled grimly. "Yes, it is. Make no illusions about it. But Hunter has a lot of make penance for and I think he's just starting to figure it out."  
  
I was thoroughly confused. "What?"  
  
"Yes, hello, I need to order a ticket for tonight . . ."  
  
I listened to him making his plane reservation for about ten minutes, still sitting awkwardly on the couch. At the eleventh minute I realized that trying to straighten up the apartment and talk at the same time, so I picked myself up and took the magazine he held away from him and put it neatly on top of a pile of other papers. He looked at me gratefully and then moved back into the kitchen.  
  
For awhile the only sounds were his drawling words and my clumping walk as I scuttled around the room fixing up the papers and magazines. And then the doorbell rang, Shawn still yammering away on the phone. He motioned for me to answer the door and then disappeared down the hallway.  
  
I breathed in deeply, tried to tell myself that Hunter wouldn't get mad, that he . . . still had a lot to make penance for. Whatever Shawn meant by that. My hand slick with sweat, I opened the door and stood back.  
  
Framed against a backdrop of stunning orange and red color stood Hunter, hair alit with flame as the sun slowly sank to its grave. A small duffel bag was gripped in his hand and the other jammed in his jean pocket. His blue eyes were nervous, questioning. I saw no trace of anger in his face, only tiredness, but what came out of his mouth persuaded me otherwise.  
  
"Move over," he snapped, shoving past me rudely to set his bag down on the floor. He stood there awkwardly for a moment, glaring at everything except for me, as though the world was the cause of his problem, not me. "Where's Shawn?"  
  
Hardly trusting my own voice, I replied, "He's in his room. He's talking to the airline."  
  
He nodded tersely and immediately headed for the bedroom. I could hear muffled words and then Hunter's rising crescendo, and then they both came back out and stood in the middle of the room, Shawn reaching down to grab his bags.  
  
"You do understand what I'm asking you?" he questioned Hunter.  
  
For a fraction of an instant Hunter's gaze rested on me. "Yes, I understand what you're asking me, and I better damn well get something in return."  
  
Shawn smiled faintly, a challenging smile, one not yet over anger. "Sure, Hunter."  
  
"Get out of here," Hunter demanded, grabbing his bag and stalking away toward Shawn's room, where I supposed he would set up camp.  
  
"Grab this bag and come out with me, Chris," Shawn said. Taking a final glance around his home, he nodded once and set off down the stairs. I followed in his wake, wondering what exactly Shawn had meant when he had asked Hunter if Hunter had known exactly what Shawn was asking. They had to be talking about me. Right? What else could they be talking about? Housekeep? Bills? Possibly, but I didn't think so. No, they had to be talking about me. But what had Shawn wanted Hunter to understand?  
  
It was maddening, this cycle. I didn't understand a shred of it. Half of the time I didn't know where Shawn stood with me, or even if he fully realized I was there. Hunter was just another complication thrown atop a growing pile, and both Shawn and I were at means with him. But when Hunter and Shawn had emerged from the bedroom, they appeared to be at tense ends, even friendly banter, while they had been at each others' throats for nearly a week. Yes. It was all maddening.  
  
Shawn and I stopped outside his rusted bucket of scrap metal and Shawn threw his bag in the passenger seat. When all his luggage had been secured inside the car, he turned around to look at me. For the first time I saw the tension in his face, his itch to be off and see his mother for himself. To make sure she was okay. To make sure she was still alive. His face, full of high strung hope and little patience.  
  
He took a deep breath. "Well, Chris. The first over night stay away from each other."  
  
I forced a laugh. "Cut it out. You're being stupid."  
  
He smiled. "Don't talk to strangers, make friends with stray animals, or run away to join the circus. I guess that about covers it."  
  
I struggled with the feeling inside me, the feeling inside me that shied away from every sentimental tone in Shawn's voice. "Get out of here. I don't need you."  
  
He nodded, relief stealing over his face. Happy to be off.  
  
I should be happy for him to leave. Happy that he was happy.  
  
But why wasn't I? Why was I dismayed and sad that he was leaving? Why had the emotions I had kept at bay for so long finally been brought to the surface?  
  
He clapped a hand to my shoulder, tightened his hand, nodded, and got in the car. The engine choked and spit for a moment, then drew to life again. He applied pressure to the gas and backed out of the parking space, wheeled around and moved out of the lot, car helm pointed toward the freeway. He waved, two fingers in a short way, and then sped away.  
  
The wind pitched around me, pitched around in a howling shriek as the nails were finally bolted into the sun's coffin and the moon rose from its bed. The streetlights snapped on, orange light flooding the pavement in an eerie glow that showed scarred pavement and dead grass. The howling wind could not hide growing sounds of activity from the alley behind the complex.  
  
And all I could do was stare at the pathway Shawn's car had taken, while the moon bathed me in its unearthly liquid water, and wonder why it hurt so much that he had left.  
  
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Hunter's car was not as junky as Shawn's, but it was still up there.  
  
Streaks of blue and white highlighted the sides, while the trunk, hood, and top were painted boldly black. It vibrated when it rested and coughed every five minutes. The wheels sagged with extra weight and the doors creaked and wailed when opened too fast or shut too hard. Aggressive moments in the seats triggered an almost cataclysmic breakdown of the main components of the engine.  
  
It was an awesomely bad car and I wondered why Shawn and Hunter, both bachelors and well-paying jobs for one person, could own such trash.  
  
I didn't complain, though, as the car sputtered down the street and Hunter turned the volume on the radio up another notch.  
  
He was in an almost good mood, I thought. We had had an almost normal conversation over the breakfast I had cooked, jeers his way toward me, and baited insults my way toward him. It surprised me, actually, the way we got along. He had slept in Shawn's room and I had slept on the couch, as usual, and it hadn't been too terse or too strange. I had woken early before him, like I had always before Shawn, and washed and dressed like I always did. Around eight he had stumbled into the kitchen to the smell of my food, and eaten like he had always lived there, with me.  
  
Afterward he seemed to have remembered that he was supposed to be taking me somewhere and even after that realization, he was still in a considerable mood. Around ten we had finally gotten out the door and heading toward the school in his junker of a car.  
  
We didn't speak on the ride to the school, until some squat beige buildings came into sight and he stopped before a red light. He turned to me, and I couldn't read the expression in his eyes, for his yellow and blue sunglasses.  
  
"When we get there, I'm your uncle," he said, no emotion in his voice. "Your 'father' is away on a business trip and I'm checking you into the school. It should hold. You've got your birth certificate, your updated immunization records, everything you need. It should be okay. Got it?"  
  
"Yes," I answered. "Got it."  
  
He nodded and we rolled the last leg to the school. Only one side of the campus was visible to me, the front side. The office was a single-story unit, fat and square. The brown paint coating was chipping, revealing in some places scars of a lighter orange. Behind the office I could see the uppermost portion of two buildings, indicating they were two- story units. From there I could see another littering of other square, smaller buildings, some long and some short. To my direct left was what looked like a gymnasium and behind that I could see stadium lights, indicating the football field.  
  
It looked like a normal high school, with a sign in front of it proclaiming "FRANKLIN MEMORIAL HIGH- HOME OF THE MUSTANGS." A greatly detailed picture of a horse with glossy mane stood off the side, pawing the ground angrily, smoke exhaling through its nostrils. Oh yeah, a mustang. I'd be a Franklin Mustang. The name sounded sickening.  
  
Hunter pulled into the half-full parking lot and parked close to the entrance. My heart started to twist in my chest, and I fiddled with the air conditioning vent nervously. School. I hadn't entered that sacred place for a long time. I hadn't been around kids my age even longer. Even when I had gone to school I had been the loner, the weird one. When I had showed up to school with bruises on my face and handprints around my neck they all knew what had happened. When I had barely been able to walk, they had known. The teachers knew too, and kindly they called CPS.  
  
Bad decision.  
  
"Ready?" Hunter didn't wait for an answer; he opened the door and stood up, surveying the lot through yellow tinted glasses. I sucked in my breath; it didn't matter if I was ready or not.  
  
We made our way to the door, Hunter striding ahead of me as I dragged along behind with my bad leg. He opened the glass door and went in without waiting for me. I followed in behind him, huffing, and the air conditioning immediately blew back my hair. A line of chair stood to the right, comfortable looking things, pressed into a wall covered with plaques and certificates. On the left wall was a mural, abstract swirls and lines. After a second I realized the patterns made a horse, galloping as though to leap from the wall onto the tiled floor.  
  
Hunter went straight up to the front counter. Beyond the counter I could see hallways and more rooms. The receptionist, glasses hanging from her neck, came up to us and her gaze questioned us before she could say a word.  
  
"Hello," she said curtly, as though she had something more important to do. "What do you need?"  
  
"We're here to enroll him in school," Hunter said, motioning to me.  
  
"Do you have an appointment?" she asked.  
  
Hunter fumbled with a slip of paper. "Yes. We're to speak with Mr. Nemark in a few minutes."  
  
She nodded, her eyes drifting behind her to a room with glass panels. "Mr. Nemark is in there. I'll buzz you in and you just go to the receptionist in there." She jerked her head to a door on the right and pressed something behind the desk, which emitted a long buzzing sound.  
  
Hunter stepped past me to open the door and held it open for me. I assumed that since we were in public now he couldn't denounce me too openly. We walked down the hallway toward where the receptionist had pointed and entered the room.  
  
On the left wall were rows and rows of magazines and books, sporting smiling faces and names of universities and colleges. A few round tables with chairs cluttered the room, some students reading silently or writing, some looking up curiously as we came in. To the right in a hollow stood another desk, with a woman behind it, swallowed by mounds of papers and stacks of folders. To this woman we went.  
  
"Hi," she said, sounding harassed. "What can I do for you?"  
  
"We have an appointment with Mr. Nemark," Hunter said. "In a few moments."  
  
The receptionist looked at the paper, nodded, and motioned to the table closest to a line of doors I hadn't noticed before. "He'll be out in a moment."  
  
We went to the table and sat down. Tried not to notice the kids staring. Tried to look at the red Marine display in front of me. Tried to figure out what Hunter was thinking, sitting serenely, eyes hidden by his glasses.  
  
Suddenly the door nearest to us open and a man walked out.  
  
"You must be Mr. Leseveque," he said, smiling broadly. "And Christopher. Well, come in. Let's get started."  
  
Trying not to feel as though I were being led into some hidden doom and this man was my captor, I followed him into the smaller office.  
  
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Constructive criticism is strongly advised on this chapter. 


	8. Hunter: Ebbing Tide

A/N: Hello my great readers.  I'm sorry for the delay in updating this chapter.  I actually reworked this chapter with help from my great beta-reader, my sister Krystalblaze.  Thanks for sticking around for so long and I hope this chapter doesn't disappoint.  Constructive criticism is always appreciated.   I apologize for the spaced-out form but italics are important in this chapter.  

Disclaimer:  I do not own Chris Irvine, Paul Leseveque, Shawn Michaels, Joanie Laurer.  I make no claim to their minds or thoughts and any picture here is only a representation.  Frances Nemark and Joseph Paean are my own creations and cannot be used without expressed permission.

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From Here to Heaven

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Chapter Eight

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Hunter: Ebbing Tide

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The nervousness emanating from Chris was so thick I was surprised the counselor didn't notice it.  Or maybe he did, but you couldn't tell from the way he smiled.  He was a young man, with a round face and bright eyes.  He looked about my age, but more clean-cut and good boyish.  His blue button-up shirt was free of wrinkles and spots, and there wasn't stubble on his chin.  Life obviously had dealt him a good hand.

The office was pretty bland, with some posters and pictures on the wall, but not very colorful.  The wooden desk we sat behind was neatly organized into piles and into trays.  A few handmade knickknacks and a dish of mints and butterscotch candy stood by a tattered computer.  A gold-plated nameplate read FRANCES NEMARK.  Nemark sat behind the desk, smiled brightly at us, and it seemed the man's vibrancy was the only thing that lit up this tiny room.

"So, let me introduce myself.  My name is Frances Nemark and I'm the ninth and tenth grade counselor at this school.  And you are . . .?"

"Paul Leseveque," I said, grudgingly citing my legal name.  I had seen the reaction to "Hunter" from professionals and it wasn't exactly encouraging.  "Paul" was a sensible, thoughtful name.  It evoked respect and fond memories.  I hated it.

"Chris Michaels," Chris said, perfectly on cue. Now the only sign of nervousness was his constantly twitching foot, as though he didn't want to sit still.  It was admirable, the way he was able to keep self-control under fire.  Granted, it wasn't all a pressing situation, but still, I knew it must be Watergate to him.

"I'm not Chris's father," I said, putting my papers on the table.  "I'm his uncle.  His father's out of town on an emergency visit, but he felt it was best if Chris enrolled in school now before he lost anymore time.  They just moved here, and we don't want him missing a moment."

Chris's foot stopped twitching and I could see him smirking out of the corner of my eye.  

Had I sounded way too sincere?

Nemark nodded like he understood.  "Of course," he said.  "I see you've gotten our papers in the mail.  I hope you'll find us most suitable.  I think you will.  Now, from where did you move?"

Chris, looking at me anxiously, the only sign of falsehood, answered, "From California."

Nemark smiled widely.  "I used to live in California myself, when I was a boy.  Where did you live at?"

I started to answer, but Chris beat me to it.  "Los Angeles," he said, his foot starting to twitch again.

Nemark smiled again.  "Well, that's good.  I'm sure it was a great city.  Why did you move?"

Chris's foot started going haywire.  "Um . . ."

"It's a private manner," I said, trying to smile at the same time.

"I see," Nemark said, his smile wavering a little.  "Not my place to prod.  Well, down to business.  Have you decided what classes you would like to take?"

Chris cleared his throat, foot slowing.  "Um, yes, but there's something about that.  We had a different system back in California.  I have enough credits to be a junior."

Nemark blinked.  "Is that so?  Do you have your transcript?"

Again with the foot.  "Um-"

"We'll be having it shortly," I said, putting on what I hoped was a charming smile.  "It was left behind in the move and it's being sent over."

Nemark smiled.  "Well, if that's all in order, I don't see why you can't already choose your classes.  Here."  He pulled open a drawer and rummaged for a few moments before emerging with a blank piece of paper.  "Write down what classes you would like.  You know, as a junior, you have to take a history, English, and science.  A math class is not required but it is encouraged.  The other classes are your electives.  PE is also required for one year, but if you've already taken it at your other school . . ."

"Yes," I said smoothly.  "He has, but there's another thing we have to discuss."  I narrowed my eyes at Chris's braced leg and Chris, luckily, took the hint.

"I was injured," he said, stomping his foot a little.  "I have to wear a brace for a few more months."

Nemark nodded without turning to look at Chris's leg.  "We have an elevator to reach the second floor in our two-story buildings.  We can give you a key for a nominal charge and you can use it when you need to."

"That's great," Chris said earnestly.  

Nemark checked his watch.  "Alright then, just write down your classes and your uncle can help me with your living information.  If you would please fill out these forms while I go outside for a second."

After handing me a few sheets to fill out he went out of the office, leaving the door open a crack.  As soon as he was gone Chris glanced at me while still writing.  "My transcript?"

"It'll be taken care of," I said curtly.  "You just fill that out and remember what classes they are."

I continued writing but I was aware that he was still looking at me.  "What?"

"How?"

"I said it will be taken care of," I growled.  "Now hurry and finish."

He complied without further protest and the office felt strangely stifled and quiet.  Chris had stopped writing and was nervously looking around the office again, foot slowing to a gentle tap now that the counselor was gone.  I wondered if he was nervous about Nemark.  I sure was.

What Shawn had asked me to do required dredging up events that I needed to have planned perfectly in my mind.  If there was a flaw I was sure it would be exposed.  I was apprehensive of the counselor as well.  I wasn't too worried about him seeing through my guise, but there was the still the possibility and I didn't like leaving possibilities hanging open.

A few moments later Nemark entered the office again and we handed him the papers.  He scanned the writing quickly and then smiled at us.  "Well, come in early on Monday, Chris, and we'll have your schedule all typed up.  Just bring in that transcript as soon as possible.  Alright then, I think we're finish-"

"Actually, Mr. Nemark, I would like to speak to you in private," I said blandly.

Chris started, his eyes wrenched.

"Of course," Nemark said pleasantly.  "Chris, if you would just step outside."

"About what?"  Chris's voice rose wildly.  "About what?"

"Nothing for you to worry about," I said, praying that he would take the hint and just walk out of the office.  The fear and panic in his eyes hurt me.

"We'll be short," Nemark promised, opening the door for Chris and showing him the way out.  "You can sit and read some of the material we have on colleges.  As a junior, it's smart to start applying now."

"I-"

"Good bye, Chris," I said forcefully, pushing him gently the final few steps out and shut the door firmly.  He'd have to weather the next couple of minutes alone, but he should be able to handle himself.  The pain in his eyes had almost overwhelmed me at first.  I didn't want him to worry, didn't want him to think I was going to hurt him.  Shawn's request took on even more urgency, even more potency than it first had.  It was no doubt, by the look in his eyes, that Chris needed what Shawn already knew he did.

"What would you like to speak to me about, Mr. Leseveque?" Nemark said politely.

I breathed in deeply, arranged the last few facts in my mind, and began to speak.  "Sir, there are a few things you need to know about Chris and then I need to ask you a question.  There is a reason Chris and his father moved here.  Before his father found him he was in a string of foster homes, up until a few months ago, where he was very badly abused.  His foster parents abused him physically and verbally, and he shows the effects of it."  Suddenly the words tumbled from my mouth, tumbled without order or rhythm, in urgency and pain, in the effort to show this man what this child had endured.  "He's afraid whenever somebody tries to touch him, he's afraid when somebody speaks loudly or yells at him.  He tries to run away, tries escape however he can.  He's afraid all the time-"

Nemark's face was purely sympathetic.  "I see," he interrupted.  "He has violent repercussions of his abuse.  I understand."

Relief flooded through me that I had made my point clear.  "So I wanted to ask you-"

"Have you seen a psychiatrist?"

I blinked for a second.  "I was just about to ask you the same question.  If you knew of any child psychiatrists that worked for low-income families and-"

"We have a psychiatrist on campus," he said, smiling wispily.  "I daresay he doesn't get enough work.  It's clear to me that Chris suffered badly and he needs help.  We can arrange it so that Chris sees our psychiatrist at least once a week during school, maybe even more if the need be.  I'm sure Dr. Paean will be happy to work with Chris."

Sweet, sweet relief surged through me.  I had thought Shawn's request would be nearly impossible.  Now I realized my own thoughts were foolish.  Of course they'd have help.  Probably some of the kids in this school already suffered the same fate as Chris.  He wasn't alone in his suffering and this doctor would help.

"That's wonderful," I said softly.  "Thank you."

"It's not trouble.  We want our students to have the best.  I'm sure there wasn't that much help in Los Angeles, with the troubles of that district now.  I'll phone over to Dr. Paean right now," he said, reaching for his phone.  "If we're lucky he may not be very busy and you can meet him right now."

"Now?"

"It's probably better to meet him before Chris starts school so we can work out a programming schedule.  You are doing this on behalf of the father, correct?"

"Of course," I said.  "Let me go and tell Chris."

"Alright," he said, waving his hand.  "I'll be out in a minute."

I opened the door to find Chris sitting at one of the round tables, a pamphlet loosely held in his hands while he stared at the wall.  At the sound of the creaking door he turned toward me, along with the other few students sitting in the room.  I went over to his table and sat down close to him.  Putting the pamphlet on the table, describing a school of journalism, he looked at me as though waiting for an answer.

There was no time to waste before Nemark came through the door.  "Chris, don't argue with me, don't interrupt, we don't have time.  You're going to see the school psychiatrist, the story-"

"I don't need some-"

"The story is," I said, more loudly, "is that you were abused by your foster parents after a bad string and then your father found you, who is Shawn.  There are purposefully holes in the story that you can fill in."  I met his crushed blue gaze and held his eyes fiercely.  "There aren't any excuses.  Shawn told me what happened in the alleyway and I know what happened the first night."  He flinched.  "You need help, Chris, and you need it badly.  I don't know what the hell they did to you, but you're weak from it.  This guy is going to help you and you are going to tell him everything that ever happened to you.  Do you understand me?"

He said nothing nor did he nod his head.

"This is going to happen whether you like it or not and the smartest thing you can do is just to accept it," I went on.  "You have to realize it, Chris.  Normal kids do not try to run away when they're parents yell at them."

"You're not my parents," he interjected.

"Don't give me that crap," I snapped.  "I don't care who we are and what we are to you, but Shawn and I found you, not anybody else.  You accepted that the first night and there's no way you're getting out of it now.  So shut your mouth and just listen to me and you tell that damn psychiatrist what he wants you to tell him."

His gaze was crushed, and his shoulders shook, and I found myself wanting to reach out and hold him.  Comfort him.  Help him find the light through the darkness that seemed permanently stuck to him. 

But what good would that do?  Holding his hand wouldn't help him.  If I treated him like glass then he'd break as easily as glass.

The creaking of the door shook me back from my thoughts and I stood up.  "If you'll just follow me, please," the counselor said, smiling a sort of sad smile at Chris.  Chris rose from the chair almost sullenly, but I could still see the slight shivers in his back as he walked in front of me out of the door of this smaller room.

Entering the main hallway again Nemark started to lead us down another hallway.  Through the large glass paneled door I could see the campus.  Sprightly trees stood among a plain of grass that bounded two tall buildings and two other squat ones.  Another building presented itself, with stone tables in front of it and through glass panels in the building itself I could see more tables, indicating this was the cafeteria and quad.  To the left was a larger building, a building I thought could be the gym.  This campus presented itself as a nice campus, a quaint campus.  I hoped that Chris realized that this was one of the better schools in the area, better than the crumbling buildings closer to the big city.

We stopped in front of hallowed doorway, with a bench sitting just outside it.  The words were stamped on a small panel next to the door: SCHOOL PSYCHIATRIST.  Chris balked at the words and stepped back into me, but I gave him a gentle push forward.

"This is Dr. Paean's office," Nemark said.  "He should be expecting us."  He knocked lightly on the door and there came a gruff affirmative.

We entered the room and Dr. Paean greeted us.  He was a big man, smaller than me but not by much.  His hair was cut short and there were muscles rippling in his arms.  He looked the exact opposite of what I would have thought of a psychiatrist.

His office clearly showed that he was a psychiatrist, though his appearance did not. His large wooden desk was covered in pictures and little figurines.  The walls held motivational posters, leaflets advertising upcoming charity events, and two framed pictures, one of little children saying something about God's gift, and the other with psalms from the Bible.  He had a beaten, comfortable looking couch in one corner of the room.  This office indicated that this man could have been could have been Jesus reincarnate.  

"I'm Dr. Joseph Paean," he said, in that same gruff voice he had said yes with.  "Frances, and-?" 

"Paul Leseveque," I supplied, offering a hand.  "This is my nephew Christopher Michaels."

"Hello," he said, in a grip that was surprisingly strong.  Releasing my hand he turned to Chris and offered to shake.  "Hello to you."

Chris shook his hand solemnly, sneaking glances at me through the corner of his eye.

"I hope we're not interrupting you," Nemark said.  

"Of course not."  Paean motioned to his desk and the seats in front of it.  "How about we sit and discuss?"

"I'm afraid I can't," Nemark said regretfully.  "I have another appointment."  He smiled quickly at Chris and me.  "Feel free to drop by before you leave and give me an update."  He exited the office without another word, leaving us alone with Paean.

Apprehensively we sat in the wooden chairs behind Paean's desk and he sat on the computer chair on the opposite side.  After a few minutes of rummaging in a drawer, he laid a few sheets in front of him and a pen, along with what looked like a form.  "Well," he said, leaning back in his chair, eyeing us.  His eyes were stormy gray.  "Before we talk about anything, I think that I should talk to Chris alone."

That startled me.  Leave Chris alone in here with this guy?  This guy wouldn't be in here if he weren't certified, that was true.  So why was I anxious about leaving Chris in here by himself?  It had to be just the look of this man.  Truth be told, I was a little leery about his appearance.  When I thought of psychiatrists I thought of mousy men with glasses and sympathetic eyes.  When I thought of this man I thought of prizefighters.

Chris appeared as uneasy as I felt.  His foot twitched rapidly, his whole body was tense.  Waiting.  Prepared to fly is necessary.

I forced a smile at the psychiatrist.  "Of course," I said.  "Whatever you want."  I got up from my chair and I went toward the door.  Tried to ignore the pleading in Chris's eyes.  Tried to ignore every warning signal inside my body.

I closed the door and sat on the bench just outside it.  Trying to calm my breathing I leaned forward and rested my elbows on my knees with my head in my hands.

Why was I so antsy about Chris being alone in the room with that man?  It wasn't he man himself; I didn't get too many warning signs from him.  Paean hadn't shown anything of wanting to harm Chris.  No indication that Chris would be his prisoner.  No, nothing like that.  He seemed, though I had spoken little words with him, like a good, wholesome guy.

So it wasn't leaving him alone with the psychiatrist that was making me edgy.

It was the fact that I was leaving him alone at all.

Startled, my gaze went to door and its lightly frosted window.  I was worried because he was alone?  Alone?  Just because I wasn't there with him?

It made no sense.  Why would that be the matter?  He was a capable kid- it had surprised me thoroughly when Shawn had called and asked me to spend the next few days over.  He had sounded worried about the kid, saying that he shouldn't be alone by himself.  Not only was the kid almost sixteen years old, he had spent most of his life trying to stay alive.  My first impression that was he could handle himself in any situation.  Apparently Shawn had thought otherwise and now I thought maybe I felt what Shawn had.

He was alone in a room with a strange man and I felt worried at that prospect.  He had spent almost half his life struggling for an existence.  When I had been sixteen, though that wasn't too long ago, my biggest worry was that my "D" would earn me a beating from my father.  And I was worried about Chris now?  I was right outside the door.  If I heard anything I'd be able to charge right in.  It wasn't like he was miles away . . . he was only yards and through a flimsy wooden door.  I had broken heavier men than the door.  

I ran my fingers through my hair.  Since that night nothing had really made sense.  The wear and tear of everyday life, the hurts I suffered in my chosen hobby, the simple goodness I had felt just being able to relax . . . now all of it felt like it was twisted into some sort of strange intangible mass that I couldn't control.  Sometimes I felt like I still wasn't over the shock of what my best friend had done.  Before that night in Salem we had both been struggling with our jobs and with our fledgling careers.  I remembered Shawn's determination to let nothing stand in front of his dream, his highest goal.  He was a man who would kill to keep anything out of his way.  And now?  I had barely spoken to him in the last few weeks.  There was a new kind of determination in his eyes, a determination that I still couldn't name.  It hurt.

My best friend, the man I had started to pursue my dream with, the man I felt was my brother, suddenly had something bigger.  Something more important.  Something that, by all indications, he had devoted his life to.  Something that sat just inside the pine door getting evaluated by a shrink.

Was I jealous of Chris?  Yes, sometimes I felt as thought I could just smash in his face for what he had done to my friendship.  Sometimes I felt as though it was all Chris's fault.  As though Chris had asked for this.  As though he had had a choice when Shawn had forcefully picked him off the street.  

Why was it that just when I thought I had a grip on reality, reality wrested a grip on me?

The door opened suddenly.

I stood up immediately, combing back my hair with my hands, and peered at my watch.  Had fifteen minutes really passed since I had first walked out of the office?  It seemed like a heartbeat.

Chris stood before he, head held low, his hair blocking any view of his face.  The psychiatrist came out behind him, holding open the door, his eyes troubled.  "May I speak with you, Mr. Leseveque?" he asked politely.

"No problem."  I stepped away from the bench, indicating with my arm that Chris should sit.  He complied, head still held low, his foot tapping some unknown melody.  I wanted to sit next to him, look into his eyes and see what was wrong.  

"Come in, come in."  Ushering me in, Paean closed the door behind him and sat behind his desk.  I took a seat on the other side of it and waited for him to speak.

"He's hardly an unusual case," he said.  "Some kids in school are exactly in the same boat as he is."  He took an awkward pause and I saw the muscles in his arms tense.  "However, he does seem more emotionally battered than most.  Can you describe to me what happened while he lived in foster care?"

I considered my words carefully before speaking.  "I'm do know some specifics, but not all.  You'd have to check with his father on that, but I do know to some extent.  He was five when his mother died, and his father never even knew he had a son.  With no way to contact his father, he was given to the government and put into foster care.  I'm not sure of the exact number of families he lived with, but he lived with quite a few and most of them abused him in some way.  Slaps here and there.  Throwing him against walls, burning him.  He's got scars on a lot of his body."

Paean looked up at me with narrowed eyes and I could almost read the message in his eyes: _scars on the inside as well._

"After one of the later foster homes, they decided to try and look up his father again.  He had moved back to the city and they contacted him.  This was a few months ago and they moved out here to try and start over."  I paused, unsure of how to continue.

"So basically his father and he barely know each other."

"I would say something to that effect," I agreed.

Paean nodded and leaned back in his chair, letting his pen fall.  "I do want to work with Chris," he said.  "He seems very much emotionally damaged.  I talked to him right now, tried to get a feel for him, and he did show the signs of abuse.  Sometimes it makes children stronger, the abuse.  It is never a good thing, never.  Sometimes it tears children apart.  It will take more time with Chris to tell.  Mr. Nemark mentioned something about fear of being touched."

I told him of the night when Shawn had first presented the idea of a school, and then I told him what I knew of the day in the alley.  He listened intently, sometimes asking a question, and making notes on his pad.  After I finished he pulled out another sheet.  "If you are willing, there is medication that can be taken for Chris's symptoms."

Appalled, I sat back.  Give Chris medication?  It was ludicrous!  Symptoms?  He was just a troubled boy.  This doctor proposed to make Chris a prisoner, a prisoner to drugs and a prisoner to addiction.  With medication Chris would be little more than a druggie, no different from those who lived on the street.

Paean spoke before I could even fathom a reply.  "I will need to evaluate Chris more, of course," he said, gently.  "I was only saying that there is medication to calm him, if the need be.  It will not make him sick or weak in any way, it will only lower his anxiety level.  I will need to get his father's approval first, but I just wanted to tell you that something does exist that can lower Chris's fear."

I didn't speak, still grappling with the image of Chris sick with the sickness of addiction.

"Until then, I will personally speak with his teachers and make sure they understand Chris's case," he continued.  "I will tell them not to upset him and if they do, to send him directly to me.  Is that agreeable?"

"Yes," I answered, breathing hard.  "Yes, it's acceptable.  But until his father comes in, no medication.  No drugs."

"Of course not."  The psychiatrist pulled out another sheet and studied it.  "I can meet with him Mondays and Fridays.  From what I saw today, I believe that two sessions in one week are necessary.  Next week I'm afraid I have to meet with him Monday, even if it is his first day.  No other time slot is open for me.  I'll meet with him again on Friday, and from then on we can continue with a regular schedule."

"That's great," I said.

"Good," he said, standing up.  He tore off a pink slip of paper and handed it to me.  "Give this to the registrar on your way out and he'll type into in Chris's schedule.  The sessions will cut into twenty minutes of his last period before lunch and some of his lunch, but I think it will help."

"Alright," I said, taking the paper and shaking his hand.  "Thank you for everything."

  
He smiled faintly.  "I only hope I can help," he said, nodding toward the door.  "Chris is hurt badly.  Nothing can change what's happened to him."

Silently, I agreed and prayed that what couldn't be changed could somehow be fixed.  

__  
  


"We don't have to go here," Chris protested again, halting another time.  "Come on, Hunter, I can get good clothes somewhere else, this place is expensive!"

"Thirty bucks for a pair of jeans is expensive, kid," I said, my eyes wandering up to the K-Mart sign.  "Twelve bucks for a pair of jeans?  Good deal."

"The thrift store," he said desperately.  "They've got jeans for less!"

"And those jeans fall apart in two weeks," I said, grabbing his arm and jarring him a few feet.  "Now stop whining.  Do you want bad clothes?"

"I don't want clothes that cost a week's supply of food," he said, glaring up at the sign.

"This place is one of the cheapest places around here, kid.  I shop here all the time and it doesn't ruin my image."

"It's not about ruining my image!" he growled, backing up another step.  "It's about you spending money that you don't need to!"

"Okay," I said, shrugging.  "That's nice and all.  Come on."

"Come on, Hunter, there are other stores . . ." His resolve appeared to be weakening.

"Stop whining, Chris."  I gripped his elbow and gently pulled him along with me.  "I can afford this.  Really, I can.  It's not like dead-drop poor."

He twisted his head back to glare behind him.  "Then why do you drive such a bad car?"

He went slack in my grip and, surprised, I peered down at him.  His head was low and despite myself, I felt exasperation.  Every single time I talked to this kid he thought I was going to mangle him.  Battering down my impulse to say something about it, I seized on my next thought.  "What are you talking about?  You know why."

"No, I don't," he muttered, complying with my pressure to move.  "I really don't."

We entered the coolness of the store and to my little surprise I saw very few browsing the aisles.

"Not many people here," I remarked, letting Chris's arm free.

"It's eight-thirty in the morning." 

I had wanted to beat the early morning Saturday rush and had woken us up at seven forty-five to get ready.  Little did I know how much time it took Chris to ready himself.  He had taken almost twenty minutes to scramble into his clothes and then eat something.  It barely took me ten minutes in the morning.  Had to be something about youth and tardiness.

"Doesn't matter," I said, eyeing the racks and racks of clothing.  

"You didn't answer my question," Chris said, still subdued as we moved toward the back of the store.  "Why is your car so bad?  Why would I know?"

"Shawn didn't tell you?"  Would this kid be wearing boys' still?  He was thin and short for his age.

"Shawn's never told me why you both have bad cars."

I stopped in the aisle dividing the boys' from the mens'.  "So what looks like you could wear?"

He hobbled toward the mens'.  "Come on, Hunter.  Why do you both have such bad cars?"

"We wrestle, you idiot," I said, focusing on a rack that held some shirts that looked like they might fit Chris.  "That's not free."

"_What?"_

A shrill bell sang as two more customers waltzed through the doors.  "We better hurry or we're going to get caught in the rush," I said nervously.  "Come on, this looks okay.  It will protect you from punks yet it will make you seem sophisticated."

"Hunter, _what _do you mean?  You wrestle?"

His bewilderment caused me to turn and stare at him.  "Yeah.  Don't be making a fuss.  You can't come along."

"I didn't know _that_," he said, his voice drawing out.  "Shawn never told me."

"Shawn never told you?" I echoed.  What?  How could he not?  This kid ate and slept in the same apartment as he did.  "Didn't you ever wonder where he went at night sometimes?"

"He always told me he was going shopping or something," Chris said, biting his lip.  "He was always, _always_ late, but I never asked him why and he always came back with stuff."  He coughed.  "He did seem very battered when he came back, but he never said anything about it, so neither did I."

"That's very strange of him," I said slowly, "not telling you.  We train at the same gym."

"Is that why he said you still spoke to each other?"

"We always see each other," I said uneasily.  "Er . . . we don't _speak.  _Come on, that shirt looks good."

"What kind of wrestling?  Like amateur wrestling?"

"No, professional.  Like they show on TV sometimes."

"Like all the time in Canada," he said eagerly.  "Sometimes I was able to see it.  Next to hockey, wrestling is actually a really big sport."

"Well, Canadians are strange.  I'm surprised Shawn didn't tell you, but now you know.  And don't be clambering to come along.  You're too young."

"Kids my age wrestle."  Was that an argument I sensed in his tone?  "Bret Hart started training even before my age and he's great today!"

"So what are you trying to say?"

"I . . ." He trailed off, a hint of red flaring in his cheeks.  "I was just saying."

"Just saying because?"

"It was interesting," he said, and very suddenly his attention was diverted to the shirt I was eyeing.  "That looks okay," he mumbled, flipping up the price tag.   "It's eleven dollars."

"And?"

"It's eleven dollars."

"Thanks for the clarification.  Take it off the rack and you can try it on."  The shrill bell sounded again and beside it was a loud chattering.  "Find a few other things.  You need at least three shirts and three pants.  If they're cheap you can get more."

"How much are you expecting to pay on this trip?" Chris asked apprehensively.

"Somewhere under eighty, more than forty."

"Eighty?  Eighty?"

"This ain't no cave, kid, you can stop pretending," I said roughly, prodding him forward.  "Now come on before this store starts to get packed."

"That's too much, Hunter."

"It's not too much.  Most people spend a hundred on their kids' clothes."

"Hunter, eighty dollars is a lot of money."

The thin patience I had been holding onto wore out into vapor.  "Okay, enough with that," I snapped.  "Stop antagonizing yourself about it.  It's my damn money and I'll do whatever the hell I like with it.  Now stop complaining about the cost and start picking what you want.  I'll tell you when it's too much."

His face flamed again.  

I wondered for a split second why it bothered me that he was blushing and then I realized. 

This kid never _blushed.  _This kid lowered his head and acting terrified.

Now his face grew red, his head lowered, and he went quickly away from me, but I saw only little fear in his slouched shoulders.  Through his thin shirt I saw a shiver run down his back, and I could still see his face beyond his hair, but there was no defensive action.  No sudden movement of his to sprint away.  No shying away from my harsh voice or cruel words.  

Just the red in his cheeks.  Just the blush spreading to his ears.

Well, at least we were getting somewhere.

__

Constructive criticism is greatly appreciated for this chapter.  


	9. Chris: To Burn

I apologize for the long delay in updating again. Plain, simple lack of motivation is what I plead, although I do have the next chapter nearly all written, so we're a little up in that department, in case my inspiration does decide to flee again.

Disclaimer: I do not own Christopher Irvine, Paul Levesque, Shawn Hickenbottom, or Joanie Laurer. They belong to themselves and their characters are property of WWE Entertainment. I make no claim to them. I own the characters that you are not familiar with and they cannot be used without expressed permission.

I apologize for the lack of scene breaks, but for some reason, does not accept the lines I put. I hope that you can sort out when a scene change occurs, and I apologize again.

I also apologize for the fact that I accidentally posted the first part of my next chapter. I don't know how this slipped by me, and if you did read it, rest assured, I will try to post it, along with the rest of chapter ten, as soon as possible.

Thank you, and constructive criticism is greatly appreciated.

-------

From Here to Heaven

-------

Chapter Nine

--------

Chris: To Burn

------------

"Shawn's coming back on Wednesday." Hunter's voice was terse. "His mother will be released then. She should be okay, if she keeps her diet and medication on track."

I didn't know how to answer that statement.

"So I'll be staying until then," he continued, scraping a spoon against the bottom of the pan of rice he was cooking. "And tomorrow is your first day of school, so I want you to get all your shit together tonight or you get your ass up at six in the morning to get it ready. It starts at eight and I start at eight, which means you'll be getting there half an hour early. We're leaving at seven, so you need to be ready by then. I don't care when you wake up, just make sure you're squared away to go."

I nodded mutely, my eyes wandering toward my backpack sitting on the floor. It was already packed and ready for wear. I knew the clothes I was going to wear and they were already neatly laid out on the armrest of the couch. If I wanted I could wake at six forty-five and be good to go. For safety's sake, I'd set my watch to ring at six-thirty. I scratched at it now and fumbled with the buttons.

In all my life I'd never owned a watch. Hunter had made me pick out a band at the store, one with a Velcro strap and a glittering surface. He'd apologized shortly for the cheapness of the watch, but I was not even dismayed. The rough surface felt foreign on my wrist and I constantly pawed at it, reluctant to get used to the feeling of it. Now I played with the buttons and eventually it blinked the time I wanted.

"If you're done playing with that," Hunter interrupted me, and I looked up, concealing my flinch and embarrassment, to see a wispy smile. "Your school gets out at three . . . I don't get off until four, so I don't know what we're going to do. You're going to have to wait until after four."

"I could walk," I offered.

His eyes narrowed. "No, you can't. I don't trust this neighborhood. You'll just have to wait."

Before I could stop myself I blurted, "Do you think that I can't take care of myself?"

I lowered my head immediately. Now I was in for it. Out of my place, all that. He had acted civilly at the store. I didn't think he could hold up the act in private.

"Oh, I don't think that at all," he said, mildly, and I raised my head an inch to see his eyebrows raised. "I'm sure you can, you little freak, but nonetheless, this is a bad neighborhood. Your ass is staying at the school until four and that's your own problem."

I swallowed. "Okay," I said meekly. "Okay."

"Now get the plates so we can eat."

I hurried to grab the plastic plates and set them next to the stove. While he ladled rice and potatoes onto the plates, I grabbed our customary cups, filled them with the juice of the day, and put them on the table, next to the cutlery I had already laid out. Taking the plates, Hunter set them at the table and sat at his seat while I took mine.

"So are you nervous?" he asked as he shoved a forkful into his mouth.

"About?" Pretending to be stupid usually worked for me.

"About school, dumbass."

I considered lying to him, but he was usually too perceptive to be fooled. "Scared shitless."

"That's healthy enough," he said. "You have your appointment with the shrink, remember."

I nearly choked on the bloody chicken I was forcing down my throat. "I do?"

"Mondays and Fridays are your appointments. Do I have to get you an appointment book or can I trust you'll remember now?"

"No," I said and impaled the rest of the chicken with my fork furiously.

"Don't act pissed about it," he said immediately as I speared the bloody meat. "Because it won't help you."

"I'm not," I replied.

"Like hell you're not."

I winced at the anger in his voice, my shoulders lowering. I had been spared this moment in the kitchen—I didn't expect the same kind of reprieve now. Whatever anger he held would come cascading out of him any moment. Any second the forks would be flying and the rice would be rolling and the chicken would be clucking . . . my stupid mouth had gotten me into trouble again . . .

"But it doesn't matter," Hunter carried on. "You're seeing the damn doctor and if you skip your appointments it's your ass, not mine."

I hunkered against the table—any second now . . .

"And about your transcript, if Nemark asks for it, we're still in the process. I'm getting it from the guys I got your birth certificate from, you need to write down what classes you've taken, the grades, we can put the California seal on them and . . ."

He continued about the transcript for a few more moments and it took me that time to realize that the table wasn't turning. He wasn't yelling or berating me; he wasn't slamming his plate against the ground or throwing his fork straight toward my forehead. Cautiously I raised my eyes; he tore apart the chicken with his bare hands and threw the bone on his napkin while continuing to drone about the transcript.

I sliced through a wad of rice with my fork to account for my silence.

Maybe there'd be a next time.

Or maybe Hunter wasn't going to explode at me.

Maybe I was the crazy one.

I shook my head, licked my lips, and continued eating.

----------

"You'll be okay, Chris. You'll be fine. I have to go now. Wait here at four, I'll—I'M GOING! Jeez, parents are insane . . . good luck!"

The window still on the way up, Hunter pressed his foot to the gas and, yelling at the drivers piled behind him, pulled away from the curb into the curve that led out of the school's parking lot. A car replaced his almost instantly and the cycle continued. Kids spilled from the doors, wishing good-bye to their parents, asking for lunch money, some looking as though their parents were the bane of their existence. Tall kids, short kids, kids who looked like they could give the Olympic team a run for their money, kids who looked like P.E. was the thing they dreaded most, they spilled from the cars and through the gates into the school.

I stood there for a few more seconds, tightening my sweatshirt against the chill morning wind, and headed for the front doors. Some kids cast me curious glances but most did nothing at my presence. They yelled to groups of friends, laughed at others' appearances, and walked silently by. Ducking my head, ignoring the glances that were cast my way, I entered the main building.

The door was open this morning and a few people moved around behind the counter. I went quickly through the door into the smaller office behind the larger. I swung around the high cabinets to see the registrar clicking away at a typewriter.

"Can I help you?" he asked.

"Yes," I said nervously, my foot starting to bang against the floor. "Um, I'm new here, and the counselor said-"

"Say no more," he interrupted and shifted papers on his desk. He held a folded piece of paper with pink highlighter marks up. "Christopher Michaels?"

I almost said "no" but caught myself in time. "Yes," I said. "That's me, right."

"Here it is." He handed me the folded paper. "If you go out through the side entrance over there-"and he pointed out the door "-you'll see a map of the buildings. If you need help just ask a teacher or any adult or any student, for that matter. The first class starts at eight o'clock sharp and the day ends at two fifty-five sharp. Any questions?"

I unfolded the paper and scanned the contents quickly. "Um . . . something about a key for my leg."

"Oh yes," he said, peering down at something on his desk. "Five dollars will get you a key and when you return it you receive it back. But you need to have proof, like-"

I raised my braced knee.

"Well, good enough. What's wrong?"

"Broken kneecap," I said.

"Ouch. Do you have the money?"

"Yes," I said, handing him the bill.

He rummaged through his door for another few seconds before emerging with a small key attached to a yellow string. "There are about three more of these floating around, I believe, so you may not even need it. But all you do is twist the lock on the buttons and the doors will magically slide open." He smiled. "We have only one and it's located on the bottom floor of the B building, as well as on the top floor. Anything else?"

"I . . . I visit the psychiatrist." I wanted to burn at the words. "How do I-?"

"The counselor will have notified the teacher," he said, sounding suddenly too cheerful. "You'll be excused ten to fifteen minutes early. You're appointments are on Mondays and Fridays, from 11:30 to 12:20. Alright? Here's that pass." He handed me a small paper card. "Use it when you need to. Just go down to the office and walk in. Anything else?"

"No," I said, very grateful that I could leave. "Thank you very much."

"Welcome to Franklin," he said, still too cheerful, and I skittered out of the office before he could say anything else.

I exited the building and found the map, printed on stone and held up by metal rods, and studied it. It broke down the buildings by letter designation. That wasn't too hard. I looked down at my schedule, and then at the school schedule by it. This was going to be a little more difficult.

**1st: Physics (Garner)**

**2nd: Pre-Calculus (Lopez)**

**3rd: English (Pre-AP) III (Klaxon)**

**4th: Journalism (Klyer)**

**5th: Typing (Priest)**

**6th: American History (Rork)**

**7th: French II (Beecher)**

I had no problems with the schedule. My day would be a breeze. My first two classes would be the most difficult, but I foresaw no real problems. My English-based classes would be my easiest and typing wouldn't be too difficult either. My other real problem lay with the American history portion. I wasn't born American. I knew little of American history. Most of my brain was devoted to Canadian history. My country of birth was the country I knew most about. The class would be difficult for me unless I did some serious catch up. French would be easy, too—I knew most of the mechanics and the basic words and some more of the complex structures. In Canada the French heritage was proud. The class would be little difficulty.

That part wouldn't be too hard. I could remember that. The block schedule would be a little more difficult. Complexity had everything to do with it. The little pink piece of paper might have been directions, but it was no way the road. I could barely make out what—

"NO!"

Something slammed into me, slammed straight into my bad knee, and I fell as it buckled.

Panic surged through me, adrenaline flooding my veins.

"You idiot! You knocked him over!"

Suddenly there was a mass of people surrounding me and I felt helplessness flood through me.

"Hey, hey, are you okay? Hey?"

Through the thin haze of pain I gazed up and found the faces, looking down at me in concern.

"I'm fine," I muttered, breathing hard as I struggled to push myself up. "Fine."

A hand grabbed my arm and hauled me to my feet. I swayed on the spot and stumbled, leaning all my weight on my good leg. My eyes cleared as I found the source of who had lifted me.

"Sorry, man," my attacker said, sounding a little shame-faced. "Didn't mean to hit you. We were just playing football and I guess I wasn't looking. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," I said, waving him off, starting to feel embarrassed now that a group surrounded me. "It's okay."

"You went down pretty hard," said a girl to my left, with many shades of colors highlighting her once plain and simple brown hair.

"Yeah, but I'm fine. Thanks. Don't worry about it." I wanted them to leave.

"Well, sorry about that. Hey—who're you?"

"I'm new," I muttered, brushing dirt from my sweatshirt and trying to break free from this kid. Half the group had drifted away at seeing my recovery and most of the remaining were breaking free as well.

"That's cool. My name's Aden. Aden Hiller."

"Hi," I said, pushing past him. "Sorry for the trouble."

"Hey, man, I'm sorry for pushing you-"

"I said it was okay. I really need to go."

"Hey, if you need—"

I limped away from him, gritting my teeth against the pain, and entered the quad area with the stone tables. I sat and lifted my leg with the brace and started to massage the muscles underneath. I had been to three more sessions of therapy with my harpy doctor and I had improved, although I was still drastically far from what I could be. I was much looking forward to the day when could move without pain and without anybody staring at me. I missed the physical activities I had engaged in before my knee had been busted up.

I licked my lips as I felt suddenly dry, suddenly remembering how the kneecap had been shattered, remembering the pain when the hammer had slammed into the knee and the merciful blackness had come and carried me.

Hunter and Shawn both thought that the beating by the drunken gang had been the cause of my injury. I had done nothing to correct that impression and they never, thankfully, remembered that the pain I had been after they had rescued me was nothing compared to what would be if I had shattered it then. They could keep believing that impression.

A crowd started to slowly gather around the benches and tables, friends flocking together. I squirmed nervously. I'd never really been a people person—I'd had no close friends in school. The questions were something I couldn't handle, the questions about my black eyes and limp arms. I had been told, on many occasions, that I was far from being the handsome and cute boy who attracted girls and for me, that was perfect. I needed no one attracted to me and I needed to be attracted to no one.

The benches continued to crowd up until finally I could take it no longer. Breaking free, I limped toward the main buildings, where very few people were huddled, and even a few were alone.

I loitered until the bell sounded, a shrill and horrible sound that made me think of prisons. I had watched masses and masses of people head through the gates, yelling and hollering, as if they were happy to be at school. Personally, I had always been happy when I'd walked away from the house, so perhaps it was the same scenario with these kids.

I waited until most kids had filtered into the buildings, the buildings I remembered from my short venture with the map before I'd been rudely forced away, and when the teachers started to eye me, I entered the B building. I found the elevator easily enough and punched in the buttons, waiting anxiously for it to arrive.

"You're going to be late," droned a voice to my left maliciously and I turned to see a balding, furry-faced man staring at me, looking pointedly at his watch.

"I . . . I'm new. I . . . sorry?"

"You may be new, but it's still not tolerated in this school. I'm afraid I'm going to have to report you to the—"

"Mr. Scalia!"

A head poked in from out a door to our immediate left and I recognized the face as the boy who had knocked into me at the map. What had been his name? Adel? Abel? Aden. Aden Hiller.

"Mr. Scalia," he burst, "Barry, Barry and Nathan, they're going to fight, sir!"

"Fuck," said the man underneath his breath and ignoring me completely as the elevator doors blossomed open, he went to the door, already shouting. Aden Hiller slid quickly through the door and winked at me. I blinked bewilderedly at him and smiling, he said in nearly one word, "Hurry up, he's going to come back." He disappeared back inside the classroom.

I stood for a moment, unsure of what had just happened, and as the elevator doors started to slide close and the bell rang, signaling that indeed, I was late, I heard feet pounding behind me and a breathless voice said, "Hey, can I ride the elevator with you, kid?"

I turned around.

Her eyebrow was pierced, a dangling silver loop bright with perspiration. A small stud was affixed to her lip and I stared stupidly at it, thinking that it was just a drop of glitter, but I became aware of the texture. Each ear was studded up to the very tip and a large thing that looked like a pen cap was stuck in the lobe. It looked incredibly painful. She wore a tight black fitting shirt with a silvery design on it that covered the entire torso, stopping at the line and spelling out a word I couldn't read. Her jeans rode low on her hips and a strip of flesh showed just underneath, as well as a ring on her naval. Her dark hair was streaked with perfectly placed red and green highlights and her black, bright eyes seemed to jump forward from her perfectly formed face.

She looked like a punk.

But at the same time, she looked strangely beautiful.

"Hello?" she asked me, annoyed when I didn't answer immediately. "Let me the ride the elevator."

"What? Oh yeah, sure."

She headed in while I limped in. She eyed and was about to speak when I head Scalia yelling, "No, you little—"and the doors slid close with a slam.

She eyed me even more. "Was that for you?" she asked me, obviously interested.

"Yeah," I said, awkwardly, turning my face away. I wanted to talk to her; it was a peculiar feeling. She interested me. I wanted to ask her questions. I wanted to face her and smile at her and let her know it.

"What did you do?"

"Nothing. I'm late."

"Hey, hell, I'm late. I'm always late. You new?"

I was surprised she'd noticed. "Yeah. How'd you know?

She smiled, exposing a ring on her tongue. Her smile was captivating. "Never seen you before, that's all. What's your name?"

"Chris," I answered, a little too quickly. "Chris Michaels."

As the elevator doors flashed open, she said, "Danni Sawyer. Well, hey, thanks for the ride. You better hurry before Scalia makes it up the stairs. See you."

Before I could say anything she ran from the elevator and down the hall. I limped out as fast as I could, looking for her, but she had already disappeared around a bend in the hallway. I stood, unsure of what had happened, like I had when Aden Hiller had distracted Mr. Scalia. Scalia. He'd be coming up the stairs soon, that's what Danni had said.

Danni Sawyer. What could the "Danni" be short for? It had to be Danielle. Danielle Sawyer it was then. But wait, maybe she was just Danni. Maybe her parents had gone out on a dare or something. But I'd probably change my name to something shorter too, if I had that long name. I called myself Chris, didn't I? Yeah, so Danni was right. But still . . . she seemed too devilish to be a Danielle. The name just didn't suit her.

I realized I'd been mindlessly walking along the hall. Pulling my schedule from my pocket, I remembered about Scalia a second time and frantically searched for the room number, just in case the teacher did come to find me. There. A123. Stopping in front of a door, I looked for any indication of room number. A small placard was attached to the wall and it read A124.

I backtracked a door and found the placard that read A123. I stopped in front of it, seeing kids inside writing on papers, and a male teacher sitting, reading a folded piece of paper. Garner, Mr. Garner his name was, and he taught physics.

I heard heavy footsteps from down the hall and I suddenly remembered Danni's words.

I pushed open the door.

Every head in the room looked at me, wondering about this intrusion. A few heads went back to the paper, but most remained on me. Nervously, I went toward the teacher, feeling all the pairs of eyes, feeling nothing more than vulnerable.

Garner looked up when he heard my approaching footsteps. He smiled faintly. "Chris Michaels?"

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I answered, "Yes. That's me. I'm new."

He held up the piece of paper. "Yes, I was just wondering where you had gotten to. Had a problem finding the place?"

"A little."

"That's okay, everybody gets lost the first day. Mind if I introduce you?"

As everyone had been listening to the conversation, and even though I'd been practically whispering and he talking loudly, I was sure they knew the whole deal, but I nodded anyway.

Smiling again at me, holding out his hand, he said, "I'm Mike Garner, and I'll be your physics teacher."

Surprised, I shook his hand, finding his grip strong enough to shake my whole arm. He turned to face his class, all of whom were watching now. "Alright, kids, we've got a new student in class today. Now I know since you're all fourth graders anyway, you know the rules. Be nice. This is Chris Michaels." 

I wanted to hide behind the teacher as all nineteen pairs of eyes turned toward me again. Sweating, I gave a little half wave with two fingers and a few students chortled at me.

Not feeling any better, I let Garner lead me toward the back of the classroom, behind a boy with dark blonde hair. He was sleeping in his chair, and I felt a small measure of relief. Everyone _hadn't _been watching me.

Garner cast a look at the boy in the chair. "You can take this seat here, Chris. I'll be back here to ask you some questions after I get class started, so we can figure out your pace and where you are in your own class. You're a junior, then?"

"Yes," I answered.

"Good. Well, here you are." He again looked at the sleeping boy. "Sleeping Beauty here is Adrian Hiller."

The boy gave a snorting honk and nearly everyone in the class laughed. Adrian Hiller wiped his eyes and blinked at the teacher, looking up at me, and with a shock, I found myself staring into the face of Aden Hiller.

"Mr. Garner?" Aden in disguise Adrian Hiller said.

"Can you tell me what I said in the last minute?" asked Garner pleasantly.

"Um . . ." He frowned at me. "You wanted us to work on our morning assignment?"

"Well, Mr. Hiller, you've just been given the question of your life and what do you do now?"

He blinked again. "I got it right?"

"Wrong. You've lost a million dollars. Sorry, come back again next week." The kids chortled and Aden in disguise Adrian Hiller blushed a little. "This is Chris Michaels, Adrian, and he'll be sitting behind you. I hope next time that we have a new student you don't do Sleeping Beauty on me. Go ahead, Chris, sit down. I'll be back in a second. And Mr. Hiller, it would be helpful if you did do your morning assignment."

Garner turned and walked away. Sliding into the seat, I stared at the back of the kid's head a second before he swiveled around and said sheepishly, "Sorry, Chris. Can I call you Chris?"

I stared at him. "Your name is Adrian?"

"Yup."

"You . . . Aden?"

He laughed, a purely nice sound. "I have a twin. He's Aden. I'm plain old Adrian. Nice to meet you, nice to give you a shock. Well, sorry, Chris. If I can call you Chris?"

The shock rolled over me and I almost laughed. Twins. Who would have guessed? That was cool.

Could he call me that? Of course he could! He was _talking _to me. Talking to me, without a fuss. Maybe this wouldn't be as bad as I thought it was going to be. If there was one good kid, there had to be others, right? Right? His twin had seemed nice enough. Right? If I was lucky. Which I usually wasn't.

But still, I had to hope. Maybe this wouldn't be as bad as I thought it would be. Garner seemed okay; this kid was talking to me, and his brother, and Danni Sawyer had talked to me, with interest. It would be okay, it had to be.

"Yes," I answered. "You can."

I wanted to add he could call me whatever the hell he wanted, as long as he talked to me. As long as I had somebody, as long as I wasn't just alone. I'd been fine at my old school, when I'd had next to no friends. Uncertainty flowed through me. What had changed?

Shawn and Hunter. Hunter and Shawn.

Being alone for so long, and then meeting them and having them talk to me, care about me, when nobody had for nearly forever, that had to be it. Was I craving friendship? Craving that same caring nature?

I had to be.

It was weakness, but I had to be.

Maybe it wasn't so bad after all.

The next time I saw Danni Sawyer was in my journalism class.

Jonathon Klyer was our teacher and after Garner, Lopez, and Klaxon, I felt as though I were ready for the next teacher's introduction. Lopez and Klaxon had treated me with none of the warmness Garner of the physics had, but I was still warm from that meeting. The classes had passed without incident and I felt reasonably well as for the lessons. Physics had been difficult to catch up on, as well as pre-calculus, but I felt that with some reviewing of the subject I could be caught up to where I should be. I could already tell that the English class would be one of my easiest subjects and I hoped for more from the journalism class.

The social aspect had been a little less promising. I had made friends, it seemed, with Adrian Hiller, and he seemed to be genuinely interested in wanting to be my friend. Other than that, no one else had spoken to me. Well, yes, there had been a few hellos and questions about where I'd come from, but when they'd found out I wasn't a very interesting or out-going person, I'd been pushed from the group. Which, I reflected, was fine, since at least no one was prying or shouting or screaming.

I entered Klyer's class with little trepidation and saw Danni Sawyer sitting right next to the door, pulling notebooks from her backpack. I stopped dead.

"And moving along," said a voice loudly from behind me and I moved ahead, blushing and saying an apology, but the kid was already pushing past me, rolling his eyes. Knowing immediately I'd rather head back out the door, I walked past Danni's desk without stopping. She said nothing to me as I passed. I felt immediate disappointment.

Well, she didn't know me. I'd let her ride the elevator with me. Nothing more. She'd smiled at me. But nothing more.

I approached the teacher, who was reading a novel and absently fiddling with his roll book. I cleared my throat loudly and he raised his eyes from the book.

"Hello?"

"I'm Chris Michaels. I'm new."

"Oh yes, yes. Sorry." He got up, marking his page, smiling and extending his hand. "Sorry about that. Me and my books have a certain affection for each other. I don't like to put them down. But anyways, I'm John Klyer. I'll be your journalism teacher for this year." He had an easy, out-going smile. "Glad to have you join us. If you don't mind, I'll just introduce you and put you in a seat. I don't like alphabetizing my students, so I do have an empty seat available if you like it. After I get class settled in I'll come and help you out. Um . . . I got a letter saying you see Mr. Paean . . . eleven-thirty, is it?"

I nodded, feeling my good mood die. I'd forgotten everything about the stupid meeting with the shrink.

"I'll let you got at eleven-twenty, to give you plenty of time. So you've got, oh, about half an hour to endure me. I hope you enjoy it."

He smiled wickedly and showed me to my seat, in the back row. I was across from Danni Sawyer. I avoided her eye, though she made no intention of looking at me. I wanted her too, though. I wanted to talk to her, still.

The door opened again and a loud group of boys filed in. I looked as Danni looked and after she rolled her eyes, we both looked away, she saw me. She smiled. "Hey," she said. "You escaped Scalia."

I felt my heart skip a beat as she smiled. "Yes, I did."

"Well, you saved my ass too. So thanks." She went back to her papers. I stared at her for a few moments and when she caught me, her face faded a little. Blushing madly, I started to pull things from my backpack.

"Hey, it's you! The kid I ran into!"

I looked up to see Aden Hiller swing into the chair that belonged to the two-person desk. I realized that he'd been one of the chatting boys who had entered the classroom. He wore a letterman jacket.

"Hi," I said awkwardly.

"Well, you ran off before I could properly apologize."

"Hey, but you saved me with Scalia. I guess I should thank you."

"Hey, no problem." He shook his long hair gracefully. "Glad you got away; and besides, Barry and Nat _were _about to kill each other, so hey, did some good there. Not that anyone would mind if Barry or Nat were gone. But anyways, you never told me your name. You ran off."

I felt my face redden. "I'm not much of a talking person, I guess. I'm Chris Michaels." The name still felt foreign and thick, so unlike my real name.

"Hiya. Aden Hiller, if you remember. "

"Of course he'd remember you, Aden," said a black haired kid in front, also in a letterman jacket. "You nearly killed him."

"I didn't do such thing," answered Hiller, yawning. "Did I, Chris?"

I felt the two boys in the lettermen jackets turn their eyes on me and I felt flustered. "No . . . you didn't, really . . . it wasn't bad at all . . ."

"You see?" said Hiller triumphantly. "I make no kills here."

"I betcha do in your homeland, ya filthy double born," said the tousled haired boy next to brown haired one.

I brightened a little at the comment. "I met your brother," I said.

He swept his eyes on me. "Oh, you met Adrian, did you? Did you notice a similarity?"

"Just a little," I said, not wanting to offend.

Aden Hiller laughed. "Just a little? How about a lot?"

"No," I said, feeling a little downed by his laughter.

"Hey! See, Larry, somebody thinks we don't look alike."

Larry the brown-haired one eyed me coolly. "He's obviously mistaken, sorely, with bad eyesight."

I felt the insult roll over me as Aden gave a dirty look to Larry. I sat back in my chair a little, feeling the need for conversation to leave me.

"Don't mind Larry," said Aden loudly, in an apologetic voice. "He doesn't like the fact that blondes are better looking then he is."

Now was the stupidest thing he could have said. I was ugly and scrawny, and Larry over here had two admirers over in the second row, I could already tell. Aden was trying to help me, but all he was doing was hurting me. From the looks of him, and from the varsity jacket, he had to be an athlete. Probably the elite of the school, with every girl tripping over themselves to touch him. And he pitied me, talking to the little, lonely, ugly new kid.

I wanted him to leave.

Aden was still shooting me guilty looks when the teacher stood up and cleared his throat, signaling for attention. Except for Larry, who pretended to snore, everyone looked at him immediately.

"Well," said John Klyer, "I'm glad to see you all today. I'll be giving you your morning assignment in a few seconds, but if you haven't noticed, we have a new student today. Chris, raise your hand." Feeling my face redden intensely, I raised my hand. "This is Chris Michaels. I hope you'll all treat him accordingly. Of course, he's sitting next to Hiller and Ashton, along with the little child Buford." Most of the class laughed, including the two admirers in the second row loudly, but I noticed that Danni Sawyer continued to look straight ahead. "Anyhow, he's our new student, and like I said, treat him nice. Take out your journals and I want you to write what you did this weekend." There was a general groaning. He clapped his hands enthusiastically. "Oh, come on. You've had a whole weekend to do whatever the hell you've wanted, I'm sure you have some endeavors you want to write about. Now hop to."

The groaning subsided and there was a flurry of zippers and scratching of papers as each student took a spiral notebook from a backpack. Klyer walked down the aisle toward me, stopping to my left and bending down to my level. I noticed Aden and Larry and the tousled haired kid listening.

"So you lived in California, right?"

"Yeah."

"Well, if you've had this class, you shouldn't have any problems catching up. You did have this class and aren't just starting new?"

"No, I've taken journalism for the beginning of this year."

"Okay, good. Basically my journalism students write the school newspaper. So you'll be working on articles about sports, the dances, student events, so on and so on. Nothing terribly interesting, but good enough to work on. We write journal entries every morning and try to keep the information clear and accurate. You just need a spiral notebook for the journal and your standard, boring school supplies, though a dictionary and thesaurus are perks. Basically that's it. I'll assign you some part of the newspaper and you just write on it. I grade the work monthly and you'll end up with your grade. Any questions?"

I shook my head.

"Good. When we start class you can see what we do and I'll pop you into a group to start writing. I assign randomly, so no complaining. Now just wait."

He got up abruptly and walked back to the head of the class. I sat awkwardly, unsure of what to do. This was the way it had been done in my last school, the basic format. Working on the school newspaper had been something I'd enjoyed. Staring around at Aden and his friends, I hoped that I would enjoy this.

A few minutes later he stopped the journal writing and told the students to divide into groups to work on their articles for the paper. I sat stupidly while Aden, Larry, and the other kid moved to join one more at the front of the classroom. Aden shot me another apologetic look. Across the row from me, Danni Sawyer joined up with one other girl, who looked less than thrilled at the prospect, and they silently sat across from each other.

After making a quick round of the students, Klyer came back to me, studying a sheet of paper.

"Well, I've got only spot open for you, so I hope you enjoy though. It's community events, and it requires that you have to look around the school area for anything interesting, most likely school construction or dances or new funding, or anything like that. I don't require anything in particular, just nothing vulgar or anything like that. Danni and Cynthia probably have a good hand on the subject already, so you can just join them." He pointed to the table right across from mine and my heart leapt strangely.

I hobbled to their desk with Klyer behind me. "Cynthia, Danni," he announced, and they both looked up. "In case you weren't listening, this is Chris Michaels. Since you're a person short, he's going to be joining your group. Chris, this is Cynthia Fontaine and this is Danielle Sawyer, but she prefers Danni. Girls, I would highly appreciate it if you explained to Chris what you guys need to do and how you need to do it." A phone rang from the front of the classroom suddenly and Klyer glanced up. "You're leaving at eleven-twenty," he reminded me as he went toward the phone. "Hop to."

Cynthia Fontaine studied me with some interest as I sat down. Danni Sawyer continued to work silently, her pencil gliding across the paper in graceful writing. Cynthia motioned to the seat and I sat, stretching out my leg comfortably.

"Hi," she said brightly. She was pretty, one of those girls who had to be a varsity guy's girlfriend. Her copious amount of flat blonde hair was pulled loosely into a tail, framing her heart-shaped face perfectly, and her luminous blue eyes were defined by eyeliner and eye shadow. Her face was formed exquisitely and she was shaped like a model. She was beautiful and I forgot almost immediately about the girl sitting to my left. "I'm Cynthia Fontaine."

Klyer's voice came through the room a moment later. "I'm leaving for a moment," he said. "Be good." His eyes sparkled. "No fights, kiddies. Keep working, now. Hop to." He exited the room, leaving us alone, and immediately chatter broke out from all along the room. I saw Aden and Larry looking at us, but Cynthia's attention was focused on me.

She tilted her head from side to side, studying me. "Did you just move here?" she asked.

Trying not to stare at her, I said, "Yes."

"From where?"

"California. Los Angeles."

"Wow, that's pretty cool. I've never been there." She continued to stare at me and I looked away. "So do you like it here so far?"

"It's alright," I answered, my voice sounding funny to my own ears.

"Alright, I would hope so. I live here, you now. It's next to perfect." She laughed, a tinkling sound. "Really, though. Why'd you move here?"

"I . . . um . . . I came to live with my dad."

"Oh, that's good." She stopped studying me and turned her head toward Danni. "This unfriendly girl here is Danni."

Danni looked at me and then at Cynthia, eyes blazing. "Yeah, I'm Danni. Stop talking like I'm not here, Cindy."

Cynthia's eyes blazed. "My name is not Cindy," she hissed in a low voice. "And just because you're some damn fucking punk, you have no right to talk—"

"And you should fuck off," said Danni simply, her pen taking up the place where she had stopped on the page.

Cynthia's face started to pinch. "You have no right," she said in a low voice. I heard sounds from behind and glanced around to see Larry and Aden watching intently. "You should go crawl off under a rock and fucking die, you fucking—"

"Hey," I said, alarmed. Cynthia's fists were clenching on top of the table and her eyes never stopped their smoldering. Danni, besides her first flash of anger, seemed to be moderately calm now. Her long black hair fell forward and covered her face as she bent low over her paper.

"Shut up," Cynthia snarled at me. I fell immediately silent, moving back. "You are some freak and you have no clue what it's like to be human!"

The childish nature of the statement made me stop and look down, wanting to laugh. This was stupid. Apparently they didn't like each other, but I thought that they could at least be civil. Danni appeared only to want to be left alone. And Cynthia had talked to her first. What a stupid little war the beautiful girl was initiating.

"I know perfectly well, thank you," Danni answered, still writing. "You need to work on your part of the article now, you know."

"I know perfectly well, you fucking freak," spat Cynthia.

"Come on," I interjected. "Stop fighting." When Cynthia turned her crystal blue eyes on me, I averted my own to the floor. She was near my age, somewhere up a year or down a year, and she was merely a girl, but I'd been beaten by less than her. Even though, logically, I knew that she wouldn't hurt me, I didn't care.

"You're not taking her side, are you?" Cynthia asked, more of a threat than a question.

"What?" Taking sides? I looked at Danni, her face still shrouded by her hair.

"You're not taking that freak's side. You can't be. You look nice enough."

I nearly blushed at the compliment, but something held me back. I felt thoroughly confused. What the hell was going on?

"I . . . I'm not on anybody's side. You guys just shouldn't be fighting."

"Somebody sees reason," said Danni quietly from the left.

Cynthia's eyes flashed again. "Nobody was asking you, freak," she said crudely.

"Nobody needs to fight," I repeated. "It's stupid."

"Nothing's stupid," said Cynthia in a placating voice, like I was some sort of stupid child. "She hates me."

"I don't hate anybody," continued Danni in that quiet voice.

Cynthia stood up. The room got immediately quiet. "I don't have to deal with you now," she said. "Chris, you seem like a nice enough person. But Danielle here hates every living creature. I'd stay away from here."

Danni's face shot up. "I don't take shit from anybody, much less you," she said, her voice rising a little. "And you can spread all the trashy rumors you want about me, but don't you go and spread them behind my back."

"I'm not," sneered Cynthia. "I just spread it to you now."

"Good." Danni continued to stare at Cynthia. "You want to hate me so bad, you little fucker, go ahead. I want a fight."

"Fight? You think I can't kick your ass?"

"Give me one more good reason."

"You're a little fucking freak."

Danni launched herself at Cynthia. Cynthia uttered a high shriek as she pitched backward, struggling to stave off the clawing girl.

"Hey! Stop it!"

I jumped to my feet before I knew what I was doing and threw my arms around Danni's narrow waist, pulling her backward with all my strength. Her knees and elbows knocked into me, along with her fists.

"She hit me!"

Cynthia was shrieking again and again as I heard the pounding of feet and the cries from the room. "The bitch hit me!"

Her hand was a blur as she aimed for Danni, who was still struggling in my arms. She hit me instead.

"Hey!"

Yelping, I fell back against the table, holding my eye, Danni knocking Cynthia over in one fluid movement.

"Hey!" hollered a voice, a voice I recognized as Larry's. "You little bitch! Don't touch her!"

I opened my eyes in time to see six foot, 200 pound Larry flying toward Danni. Panic caught my throat, and I heard Aden yell, "No!"

Ignoring the shrieking pain in my knee, I leapt up, throwing my body into Larry, blocking him from Danni, who had just realized the danger after a thorough job on Cynthia's perfect face.

I felt pain race through my torso as Larry's full frame shove into me.

"Hey! KNOCK IT OFF!"

I flew into the table, my knee knocking against the edge, and I screamed.

The room got suddenly quiet. I could hear myself panting, Danni's panting, Larry's growling rage, and Cynthia's quiet whimpers of pain.

"Hey, what the hell is going on here?" It was Klyer. I squeezed my eyes tight as another wave of pain rolled over, this one so intense I felt tears spring into my eyes, and I whimpered. "Cynthia, are you alright? Cynthia? NO, DON'T!"

I could hear hurried footsteps and forced open my eyes in time to see Cynthia launch herself at Danni, who was leaning against the table, wiping her face. Klyer caught her by her waist and forced her bodily away from Danni, who stood there, just looking. Lying on the table, I felt vulnerable, my body spread-eagled, my knee dangling limply. Cynthia's high-pitched whimpers drove spikes into my brain and I felt pain in my head.

"Chris, Chris!"

I opened my eyes and rolled my head to the side to see Aden Hiller's worried face.

"Chris, are you alright? Can you sit up?" His hands grabbed my shoulders and when I nodded, he forced me into a sitting position, both legs dangling off the table. I was still panting. "Are you alright, Chris? What hurts? What's wrong?"

"Knee," I managed to choke out. My knee was bent straight, thankfully, not at an awkward angle, but the brace was jammed painfully into my flesh and I had a horrible feeling that the work done to it had just come undone.

Klyer forced Cynthia out of the classroom, dispatching two boys with her, one Larry, one a calmer looking boy with glasses. "Get to your seats!" he roared, surprising me badly. "All of you, NOW!"

Everyone scattered, except for Aden, who remained by my side, and Danni, who continued to stand.

Klyer came to me, his face pale. "Chris, what happened?"

Aden answered instead. "Danni and Cynthia got into a fight. Chris tried to stop them and he grabbed Danni and Cynthia hit him instead, and then Larry tried to hit Danni but Chris tried to stop him and Larry hit him instead and he flew back into the table and I don't know what's wrong with him!" The sentence came out jumbled, but I could see the recognition in Klyer's eyes.

The teacher came around the table and bent close to me. "Is it your knee?" he asked.

"Yeah," I panted, feeling the pain again. "I . . . it was shattered. I think . . . I think I just moved it. Not shattered. Just pain. It just hurts."

"I'll send you the nurse," he said. "Or better yet, I'll send you to Paean. He needs to see you anyway. Can you put weight on it?"

With Aden's hand still holding me, I slid from the table, leaving weight on my good leg, and stepping down gingerly with the other. It took a moment for the pain to slice into me and I nearly groaned, but managed to keep it in. I shook my head.

"Alright, then. Aden, you and Eric help him to Dr. Paean's office. Do you know where it is? No, well okay, Chris does. I'll call down and let him know you're coming. Use the elevator and go carefully. You hear me? Go carefully. Go now. Chris?"

I looked up at him, tears of pain slowly fading from my eyes.

"Be careful. Rotten way to start a first day, isn't it?"

I forced a laugh that came out as more of a moan. "Sure is."

Klyer snapped back around toward Danni, saying, his voice surprisingly gentle, a voice I'd thought would be angry, "Danni, what happened?"

As Adam and the tousled haired boy, who I assumed was Eric, came up to me, I saw Danni's eyes watching me, ignoring Klyer's question for the moment. She smiled, a tired, sad smile, but suddenly I felt my heart break free of the restraints I'd had. Cynthia's pristine, beautiful, fake smile did not match this smile, this smile that showed some crooked teeth, that hideously ugly green tongue ring. My heart lifted and I felt that, no matter the consequences of this one moment, no matter if my leg never fully recovered, or if there were more consequences I couldn't foresee, my struggle to separate the two girls had been worth it.

"Alright," the boy named Eric said. "I'll take your arm, you take that arm, Aden. Chris, just slide your arms around our necks. You'll do fine. Keep the weight off the leg and just hop. You'll do fine."

As we started for the short distance between the door and the table, Aden explained to me, "Eric is part of the student trainer program. He thinks that you need to be calm."

"I feel marginally calm," I said, trying to smile.

"If you're panicked, then you hurt yourself more. So the goal is to keep you un-panicked at possible."

"I don't feel panicked," I said.

"Still. As you're about to see, we're going to hit a very-panicked situation here. It could be very stressful."

I looked at him, puzzled. He winked. Aden pulled open the door and a second later I realized what Eric meant by a stressful situation.

Cynthia was pounding her fists into Larry, who was trying his best to console her, but looking strangely helpless as her punching bag. The calm-looking kid with the glasses watched with an expression of amusement on his face.

"Cynthia," Larry was yelling, trying to grab her wrists and stop her, but looking scared to hurt her. "Cynthia, come on, knock it off!"

Cynthia cried and raged at the wall, the only distinguishable words "Danni," "bitch," and "kill."

All three turned toward the sound of the door and Cynthia's face distorted into a veil of rage while Larry's face turned into a sneer.

"Not even an hour," the taller boy said. "Not even an hour and he's fallen in with that bitch. I'm glad I hit you."

"Hey," Aden said angrily. "Knock it off! You were going to hit a girl!"

"She's not a girl," snarled Cynthia.

"She's not human," supplied Larry.

"Accordingly, she's a freak," said the kid with glasses, but it was so exaggerated, I knew he believed none of it.

"Eddie's right," Larry picked up, half as angry. "And I don't care if she's a girl, she hit Cynthia!"

Cynthia pointed erratically toward her cheek, which was a very light shade of blue, the rest red, which was probably just her spouting anger. "Right here!" she nearly shouted. "I'm going to sue that bitch! She provoked me!"

"No, she didn't!"

The anger hit me so fast that I was surprised. Larry's face darkened, and the mask of rage that Cynthia wore turned into a mask of fury. I wanted to recall the words as soon as I saw their faces change, as soon as their faces changed from plain and simple rage at a person they couldn't reach, to a person right in front of them. Why hadn't I just kept my big mouth shut? I knew better than talking out of turn—God knew my knee proved it.

"Say it again," challenged Cynthia, her face melting further into the pool of fury.

"Hey," protested Eric, who was started to drag me inconspicuously down the hall. "He's hurt. He doesn't know what he's saying." I knew perfectly well what I was saying, but he was trying to save me from further damaging, for which I was grateful. "Move it guys, we have to go."

Larry's eyes lingered on me, hateful.

"And you shouldn't be talking," Aden seethed. Oh, great job. Larry was inches taller than Aden even, fuller by fifty pounds, and here Aden was, provoking him. Oh, very fine job. "You were about to hit a girl, and that's as low as you can get, Larry!"

Larry's anger diverted from me toward Aden. "What the fuck are you saying, Aden? You know Danni's a fucking freak and you saw her hit Cynthia! I had to protect her!"

"If I wasn't mistaken, Danni had stopped hitting her!"

"I had to get revenge!" Larry's arms twitched malevolently. "She attacked her!"

"Yeah!" piped up Cynthia, pointing to the same light bruise on her face. I nearly blanched. Oh yeah, baby, you think that's bad? I rolled my eyes at her, the pain in my leg growing as Eric shifted nervously under my arm.

"And you're about two hundred pounds heavier!" Aden exploded. "She's a girl!"

"Stop fighting!" Eric looked desperately at the kid with glasses, who took the hint and stepped between Larry and Aden, who held my left arm by his neck. "Stop fighting! Klyer's coming out here any second and you guys can punch each up some other time! Get some real jabs in, whatever the hell you want, but he's right inside! Fuck you both. He's hurt, it was a stupid fight, and we are leaving. Back off, Larry."

Without another word, Eric started quickly down the hall, dragging Aden and I along with him. I had to hop frantically to match his pace, but I was grateful for anything that took me away from the hateful hole behind us. Half the way down the hall I heard a door open and then Eric sigh in relief, "Klyer. He just came out." He slowed his pace.

"Are you okay, Chris?" he asked me as we neared the elevator. "Sorry I went so fast."

"No, I'm glad," I panted, my sides heaving as though I'd run a mile instead of just hop a few yards. "Thanks."

"No problem," Eric said, and then his attention turned to Aden, who had been quiet since his last words to Larry. "What the hell is your problem, Aden? You can't win this Larry, and you're stupid for provoking him!"

"He was going to hit a girl!" Aden still sounded shocked. "You don't get any lower than that, especially if the girl is two feet shorter and a hundred pounds lighter! I mean, I know Cynthia's his girl, but that was too much, man, that was way too much!"

We stopped near the elevator and leaning my weight awkwardly on Aden, I took my arm from Eric and pulled the key on the lanyard from my neck, handing it to Eric. We piled in the elevator unceremoniously and as the door clanged shut, Eric asked, "So what did happen?"

"It was stupid," I said, first quietly, then raising my voice. "It was really, really stupid." I recounted what had happened and by the time we exited the elevator, Aden was shaking his head.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid," he muttered. "I like Cynthia, but jeez, sometimes she can be such an idiot."

"Well, Danni's not exactly a peach, either," Eric put in. "You heard what she did with Jeremy the other week, didn't you?"

Aden shrugged. "So they do drugs. Everyone in the school does drugs."

"But she's a pill popper, Aden. Regularly. They're ruining their lives, they do what else? Coke, weed? Their entire little group is being stupid. If I were you, Chris, I'd stay far away from them."

"That's unfair," interjected Aden.

"That's totally fair," said Eric reasonably. "They're doing drugs and the fuck knows what else. I would stay far away."

"Danni seemed nice enough," I said quietly.

"Oh, they're all nice enough,' said Eric as we approached the main office. "All of them, nice enough. But the fact is they do use their dumbass drugs and you just know their plain stupid. All dark and depressed and do nothing worthwhile."

"Now that _is _unfair," objected Aden. "Jeremy plays guitar and Ariel is into her art and Danni likes to write and Seth and Ethan play their band and Tasha and Sage are into their sculpture—"

Eric remained resolute. "They're doing drugs," he repeated. "And they're being stupid."

We fell silent as we entered the office, and then Aden asked, "Where's Dr. Paean's office? Who is Dr. Paean? Never heard of him before."

I lowered my head. "He's the psychiatrist," I muttered.

I felt Eric stiffen underneath my arm and Aden said, uneasily, "Oh. Well, that's probably why I've never heard of him before." There was a long, horrible pause when I thought they'd leave me right then. Think I was diseased or something. Think my insanity or whatever inflicted me they could catch.

"So where, um, is his office, um?" Eric coughed after the pause.

I directed them and we went toward the office. When the little panel with the words SCHOOL PSYCHIATRIST came into view, I wanted to shrivel. I had thought I could escape unscathed from my appointments. Nobody would have to know I saw the stupid shrink and nobody would think any lesser of me. Of course, that had gone and been screwed up for me, like everything else. Now everyone would know I had a "problem" and my "problem" was bad enough for the shrink. So great. I'd be the little new kid with the "problem" who saw the shrink to cure the "problem."

Aden hesitantly knocked and when there was a barking affirmative, Eric opened the door while Aden and I hopped in.

Dr. Joseph Paean, wearing a loose collared shirt and loose pants, stood up to greet whoever had come through his door. Probably thinking it was me, but probably in a tad different fashion. When his eyes caught sight of me hobbling in with Aden supporting me, his eyes widened.

"Pretty bad, then?" he asked, and I remembered Klyer's intention of calling him. "Is the pain bad?"

I nodded my head slightly.

"Stay on the couch," he instructed, and Aden deposited me on the worn brown sofa a moment later, letting me stretch my leg to the fullest extent, the brace still jamming into the flesh very painfully.

"Thanks for bringing him down," Paean said, ushering Aden and Eric toward the door. I shot Aden a helpless glance and he tried to smile. "Thanks," I said, in a voice thick with despair.

"Don't mention it," Aden said. "Happy to help."

"Yeah," said Eric, but I thought he sounded pressed to leave.

Paean shooed them out the door and a moment later, closed it.

The heavy bang sounded like nothing less than the steel bars of a prison cell slamming shut.


End file.
